23. Scattered Magnets
Chapter twenty-three
Scattered Magnets
Several weeks after the midnight stairs, I am trying to be good.
I'm with Jasper now, whatever that means. We have patterns: morning coffee, where he knows exactly how I take it. I have evening conversations with Eli that meander through everything and nothing, and nights that end with Jasper in my bed; his warmth wrapped around me.
It's good. It's real. It's the kind of thing I should want.
So why can't I stop thinking about Callum?
It's ridiculous. Callum barely speaks to me. He communicates in looks and silences and the occasional sentence that lands like a tornado in my chest. He’s intense, watchful, and completely unlike his brothers in every way that matters.
And yet.
I catch myself looking for him when I come into a room. Noticing when he's not there. Wondering where he goes on nights when his brothers follow him into the preserve for hours.
Stop it, I tell myself. You have something good. Don't ruin it by wanting what you can't have.
But wanting has never been something I could control.
* * *
He caught me alone in the kitchen.
Jasper and Eli had gone out, something about a meeting with neighbors. They'd been vague about the details, which I've learned is normal. The Thornwoods keep secrets the way other families keep heirlooms: carefully, deliberately, passed down through generations.
I was making tea when I heard him. Or rather, I felt him; that awareness that prickles along my skin whenever Callum is near. I don't know when I started being able to sense his presence, but it's become as reliable as gravity.
"You're avoiding me," his voice was deep and rough, so unlike his brother’s warm, mellow tones.
I didn't turn around. Kept my eyes on the kettle, the steam rising, my hands steady through sheer force of will.
"I'm not."
"You are." He moves closer. Not threatening, just present. Taking up space the way he always does, like the room reshapes itself around him. "You haven't looked at me in days."
"That's not—" I stop. Because he's right. I've been careful not to look at him. Careful not to let my gaze linger on the breadth of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens when he's thinking, the hands that look like they could break things or build them with equal ease.
I've been so careful, and he noticed anyway.
"Why?" he asked, stepping closer.
The question hung in the air between us. I could have lied and probably should have. Could have deflected with humor, changed the subject, or made an excuse about needing to be somewhere else.
Instead, I hear myself say, "I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
I turn around.
He's close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes to, those strange dark brown eyes that always seem to see more than they should. Close enough that I can smell him: wood-smoke, and something that's purely, distinctly him.
"Callum—"
I don't know what I was going to say. It doesn't matter, because he closes the distance between us and kisses me, and my brain stops working entirely.
It came out of nowhere. A volcano erupting in a kitchen that smelled like chamomile tea two seconds ago. His mouth on mine, his hands in my hair. God help me, I couldn’t think about Jasper, guilt or any of the reasons this is a catastrophically bad idea.
I'm no longer thinking at all.
My back hits the refrigerator. Magnets scatter, clattering to the floor, and neither of us stops. His body presses against mine, solid, warm, overwhelming, and I'm gripping his shirt, pulling him closer when I should be pushing him away.
He kisses me—starved, desperate, weeks of restraint breaking. Like he's been holding back for weeks and something just snapped. His teeth graze my lower lip and I gasp, and he uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss until I'm drowning in it.
"Callum," I manage, when he moves to my neck. "We shouldn't—"
"Probably not," he agrees, and bites down gently on the spot where my neck meets my shoulder.
I make a sound. Heat flares across my cheekbones, but I can't bring myself to care. My knees actually buckle; I didn't know that was a real thing that happened outside of romance novels, and suddenly we're sliding down, his arms catching me, lowering us both to the kitchen floor.
The tile is cold against my back. Callum is hot above me, braced on his forearms, looking down at me with those golden eyes gone dark.
"This is insane," I whisper.
"Yes."
"We're on the kitchen floor."
"I noticed."
"Your brother—"
"Isn't here."
He kisses me again before I can say anything else, and I stop trying to form words. My hands find their way under his shirt, trace the muscles of his back, feel him shudder at my touch. He's all heat, rock-hard muscles and barely restrained strength, and I want more of him. All of him.
His hand slides up my thigh, and I arch into him, chasing the contact. He makes that sound again, low, almost a growl, and I swear I cum in my panties. For a second, his grip tightened.
"Serena." My name rough in his mouth. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Good," I hear myself say. "Fair's fair."
He laughs. Actually laughs, a surprised, genuine sound that transforms his usually serious face into something younger and warmer. I feel it vibrate through me where our bodies press together.
"She jests," he murmurs against my throat.
"He jests not." I muttered, thinking of his never-ending seriousness..
"Is that right?" He pulls back just enough to look at me, one eyebrow raised, and there's something playful in his expression that I've never seen before. Callum, playful. It's disorienting. "That sounds like a challenge."
"Prove me wrong."
His grin widens. He kisses me again, slower this time but no less intense, and his hand slides higher. He brushes past my thigh, beneath the hem of my skirt, fingers tracing patterns on the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
"Callum—" I gasp.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my mouth. "And I will."
I should tell him to stop. I should remember that I'm with Jasper, that this is his fucking brother, that we're on the kitchen floor in broad daylight and anyone could walk in.
I don't tell him to stop.
His fingers find me through the thin cotton of my underwear, and I make a sound I've never made before: desperate, needy, completely undone. He strokes once, twice, testing, learning, and I'm already trembling.
"Look at me," he says.
I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine, those golden eyes dark with want, watching every reaction that flickers across my features.
"I want to see you," he says, and pushes the fabric aside.
The first touch of his fingers against bare skin makes me cry out. He swallows the sound with a kiss, his tongue stroking mine as his fingers stroke below, and I'm lost; completely, utterly lost.
He knows exactly what he's doing. Exactly where to touch, how much pressure, the perfect rhythm that builds the heat coiling in my belly into something unbearable.
His thumb circles while two fingers slide inside me, and I'm gripping his shoulders hard enough to bruise, my hips moving against his hand without any conscious input from my brain.
"That's it," he purrs against my ear. "Just like that."
I can't respond. I can’t form words. Can't do anything but feel: the cold tile against my back, the heat of his body above me, the relentless pleasure of his hand between my thighs. The tension builds and builds, winding tighter with every stroke, every circle, every curl of his fingers.
"Callum—" I'm begging now, though I don't know what for. "I can't—"
"You can." His voice is rough, strained, but his hand never falters. "Let go, Serena. I've got you."
He twists his fingers, hits something inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes, and I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, my back arching off the cold tile, his name tearing from my throat. He works me through it, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, until I'm limp and gasping on the kitchen floor.
For a long moment, neither of us move. I'm staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe, my entire body still humming. Callum is braced above me, watching my face with an expression of deep satisfaction.
Then he grins.
That same devastating grin, slow, wicked and thoroughly pleased with himself.
"What?" I manage, my voice wrecked.
"Nothing," he withdraws his hand slowly, deliberately, and I shudder at the sensation. "Just enjoying the view."
"You're—" I struggle for words. "You're insufferable."
He laughs and pushes himself up, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. I lie there, sprawled on the tile, skirt rucked up, completely disheveled, watching him with something between outrage and lingering desire.
"You're just... walking away?" I ask, still on the floor.
He extends a hand down to me. I take it, what else am I going to do? He pulls me to my feet. Steadies me when I wobble, his hands warm on my arms. He leans in, close enough that his lips brush my ear.
"That’ll do for now," he murmurs. "This was fun."
He steps back. Still grinning. Like he's just won something, and he's thoroughly pleased about it.
"Callum—"
"See you at dinner, Serena."
He walks away. Actually fucking walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the kitchen with scattered refrigerator magnets and a complete inability to form coherent thoughts.
I stood there for five minutes, trying to breathe.
My legs are shaky. My underwear is damp. There are refrigerator magnets scattered across the floor like evidence of a crime scene, and I should probably pick them up before someone else sees them and asks questions.
I don't move.
Instead, I replay what just happened. The way he'd kissed me without warning. How he'd laughed, actually laughed, against my throat. The way his fingers had known exactly where to touch, exactly how to take me apart.
This was fun, he'd said.
Fun. Like it was a game. Like I wasn't standing here with my world rearranged, my body still throbbing and my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
Eventually, I gathered the magnets. Smooth down my skirt. Pour out the tea that's long since gone cold.
I avoid the mirror. What I'd find there scares me more than the pleasure aching between my thighs.
* * *
That night, I lie next to Jasper and feel like the worst person alive.
He's asleep, one arm thrown across my waist, his breathing deep and even. He brought me into his home, his family, his bed, and he trusts me.
And I let his brother pin me to the kitchen floor and make me come with his fingers while I moaned his name. Worse, I'd wanted it. Still want more, even now, with Jasper warm against me. I can still feel the ghost of Callum's hands, the way his eyes watched my face as I fell apart.
What kind of person does this make me?
I stare at the ceiling and catalog my sins. Kissed Eli in the archive. Fell into bed with Jasper. Let Callum finger me on the fucking kitchen floor of the main house.
I can't even pretend it was a moment of weakness. I had every chance to stop it: to say no, to push him away.
I hadn't wanted to.
Three brothers. Three separate moments that felt less like weakness and more like gravity. Like I couldn't have stopped any of it even if I'd tried.
Marcus would have a field day with this. Would use it as proof that I'm exactly what he always said: faithless, fickle, unable to be satisfied.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe there's something fundamentally broken in me, some flaw that makes me incapable of wanting just one person. Some greedy, shameful part of me that takes and takes and doesn't know when to stop.
Jasper shifts in his sleep, pulls me closer. I let him, even though I don't deserve the comfort.
The worst part isn't the guilt. The worst part is that even now, replaying the kitchen in my mind, I don't feel regret. I feel heat. I feel want. I feel the phantom pressure of Callum's fingers and have to press my thighs together against the ache that's still there.
See you at dinner, he'd said; like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just unraveled me completely and walked away whistling.
And tomorrow, oh God, tomorrow I have to face him across the breakfast table. I'll have to see that grin and know exactly what it means. I'll have to look at Eli and remember the archive. I'll have to smile at Jasper and pretend I'm not counting all the ways I've already betrayed him.
I don't sleep for hours. When I finally do, the dreams that came were not peaceful.
When I finally do, I dream of golden eyes and a laugh that echoes through an empty kitchen.
I dream of hands, mouths, and the cold press of tile against my back.
I dream of Callum's devastating grin, then watch as it slowly disappears. There’s blood, so much blood; on his face, his chest. Someone laughs. My blood turns cold.
“NO” I scream and the shadows whisk me away.
I am standing in the magnolia grove, surrounded by white blossoms that glowed like stars. And there is someone walking toward me through the trees. A woman, old and dark-skinned, with eyes that held centuries.
It has begun, she says.
What does that mean?
Blood calls to blood. Power calls to power. And the darkness you carry... She reaches out, touches my chest, and her fingers burned cold. The darkness is waking up.
I woke with a gasp, Jasper's arms still around me, his heartbeat steady against my back.
But the place where the woman had touched me burned, even in waking.
And when I looked down, I could have sworn I saw shadows moving beneath my skin.