Julian
I WATCH AS ABIGAIL runs around the fountain in the front courtyard from where I sit on the steps. Her large, fluffy white coat is swallowing her little body, but her laughter is wild and carefree as she runs in circles, her fingertips occasionally dipping into the freezing water.
Lately, things have been surprisingly peaceful.
It’s been a month since my father and I moved into Chastain Castle, and although we’ve yet to leave the property, I’ve been on several adventures.
Whether it’s playing dolls with Abigail, sitting by the ledge that overlooks the Pacific, or being taught how to play the piano by Lady Theodora, I am constantly experiencing something I never experienced back in California.
I’ve found that cleaning up after the Chastains and helping them with the mundane parts of life is quite fulfilling, and I don’t think I’ll mind staying here for a while.
The only thing I do mind is Atlas. He hasn’t asked me to attend to him since that night a few weeks ago, when I carefully dressed him in his silk night clothes, but his presence is formidable even still.
Between the subtle glances and his flirty comments, I find him to be a stifling person.
I find that I’m attracted to his beauty.
I’ve always known of my own bisexuality. In fact, the first person I ever slept with was my childhood best friend, Landon. But this is different. This is difficult.
Because there are many secrets that circle Atlas, and not only am I employed by his father, but he’s not my… normal type.
Normally, I go for men like myself: gym rats who exude masculinity and dominance. I like the fight for power, the back-and-forth. If I wanted to fuck someone soft and sweet, I’d fuck a woman, which I did often back home.
But Atlas is different. For some reason, I find his delicate frame and demure appearance to be quite appealing. The way that when his skin brushes mine, I am set on fire. How his big eyes peer up at me with faux innocence that I can see right through.
As if that sweet little thing is a lot more predatory than he looks.
That, in and of itself, is an issue. Because again, I am employed by his father, and he’s hiding something. Something that puts the entire Chastain family on edge.
Which only proves to heighten my desire to rip him to shreds; to pull him apart piece by lovely piece until I can fully grasp the person he is.
I want to see past his sultry glances and the image of his soft, perky ass that is forever engraved into my mind.
How would he sound? When he’s screaming and crying under the weight of immense pleasure, what does he taste like?
Who is he when he’s not hiding?
So, with all of these horrible thoughts and impulses coursing through me at all times, I’ve found myself avoiding the guy. Luckily, he really is easy to attend to. He hardly ever calls for me, and we’re only ever around each other with others present.
And outside of him, everything is damn near perfect.
“Missus Abigail, let’s go inside. You’ll catch a cold.” I speak loudly, catching the girls’ attention.
“But I’m always locked inside during the cold months!” she cries out, pouting as she comes to a halt at the bottom of the staircase.
“And for a good reason, my friend. Come on, let’s go have tea.”
Abigail perks up at that, rushing up the stairs to grasp my hand in hers, and we walk back inside side-by-side.
As we enter the foyer, I spot Atticus descending the main staircase.
“Young Master Atticus,” I call, already aware of how this conversation will go. “Do you need anything?”
He waves me off, heading in the direction of the in-house movie theater without so much as a glance in my direction. I sigh softly.
“He’s not mean, Julie,” Abigail says as we head toward the kitchen. “He just loves us a lot. He doesn’t trust others.”
“I don’t think he’s mean,” I straight-up lie. “He’s allowed to like or dislike whoever he wants.”
Abigail smiles at that, and we enter the kitchen.
“Barfred,” I say, finding the younger man standing at the stove. “Could we have some tea?”
Barfred is in his early thirties and is very kind. I met him a few days after we settled in, and since then, I’ve found myself enjoying his company. I met Hannah, too, who is a bit more standoffish but still kind.
“Of course. I’m making some for Young Master Atlas as well.
Would you take it to him once it’s ready?
” Barfred’s black hair is pushed back from his face with a headband, though it’s only long enough to barely cover his eyes, so the accessory makes it stick up awkwardly.
His large body is moving gracefully around the small space in front of the stove.
“Sure,” I answer, already uneasy with the knowledge that I’ll be encountering Atlas again soon. At least Abigail will be with me.
“I’d like ginger tea, please, Barfred,” Abigail requests, and I lean against the island as he places a new teabag in her pink mug.
I say nothing, accepting whatever it was he was preparing before we arrived.
A few minutes later, I am presented with a mug full of what smells like plain peppermint tea.
“And this is for the Young Master,” Barfred adds, sliding me another mug that is very clearly murky with milk and what looked to be three full spoonfuls of sugar.
“Thank you.” I grab both of the steaming beverages. “Do you happen to know where he is?”
“He said he’d be in the back courtyard,” Barfred informs me, his cat-like, honey-brown eyes watching with intent.
I turn and head toward the exit, with Abigail in tow.
“Hold that with two hands, my friend,” I instruct, peering at her from over my shoulder.
“Okay! I’ll be in the music room waiting for you, Julie.” Then she turns and heads toward the main staircase, leaving me to stare after her in shock.
I guess she won’t be with me while I present tea to Atlas.
Nervously, I tread out the back door, the cold December air assaulting my senses once again as I exit the estate.
The dead garden, which I can tell is lavish and bright in the spring months, is brown and dead as I pass through, keeping my eyes on the outline of Atlas.
He stands at the ledge, just as I’ve seen him do from the window on the second-floor landing at least twenty times by now.
“Waiting,” Abigail had said once, when I asked her what he was doing out here.
As I approach him now, seeing only his white slacks and a puffy black jacket, a knitted white cap pulled over his curls, I am bombarded once again with the knowledge that he is so small compared to me.
As my black Converse crunch against the dead leaves coating the dirt, Atlas stiffens. Once I’m only a few feet behind him, I speak.
“Your tea, Young Master Atlas.”
He turns, aiming those glacier-blue eyes at me as he bats his lashes. The cold has bitten his cheeks dark red, his nose bright. Even from here, I can see that his full lips are chapped.
And as he moves to take the mug extended to him, and his jacket shifts from where it’s wrapped around his torso, I notice the entirely too sheer blouse he’s wearing. It’s black, sure, but it reveals far too much.
“Are you cold?” I ask him, tearing my eyes from his hardened nipples to take in his expression.
Atlas looks… amused.
“Yes,” he simply states. “Thank you for the tea.”
I find it quite fitting that he takes it sweet and with milk. It fits what I know of his soft, calm demeanor.
“You’re welcome.” And after a moment of silence, the two of us staring at one another, I add, “Shouldn’t you come in? You’ll freeze to death.”
Atlas considers this for a moment before he shakes his head gently, a few curls poking out from under his cap. It’s here that I notice the red mark on the skin where his neck and shoulder meet.
It almost appears to be the shape and length of a finger pressed too tightly against soft, impressionable flesh.
“I’m waiting,” he says as if it’s obvious, as if it’s important, and it pulls me away from staring at his skin.
“I’m sure whatever you’ve been waiting on can be seen from inside, no?” When he raises a brow, I continue. “What will your mother do if you get sick? She’ll lose her mind.”
“That is true.” Atlas grins. “But I like the cold. It cools me off.”
Without a second thought, my hand raises, my bare fingertips grazing his cheek. What I want to do is trace the pad of my thumb over that red mark and to ask him about it, but I do not. It’s not my place.
“I think you’re cool enough.” But even as I say it, I realize it’s a lie.
Sure, he appears to be a boy freezing—he’s even shivering against the cold breeze—but his skin is still feverishly hot. His lashes flutter when my skin makes contact with his, a soft hum leaving his lips.
I want to keep touching him; everything in me is demanding that I let him burn me alive. But it suddenly feels as if I’m being pushed away, even without Atlas moving an inch, and I rip my hand away a moment later. I must have subconsciously become aware of the boundaries I’m unconsciously crossing.
“Julian, we do not touch the Young Master without his permission,” Oscar had once said.
Atlas is observing me, his own hand lifting to touch the skin where my fingertips had rested a few seconds ago. The hand holding his mug shakes slightly.
“I beg to differ,” he finally replies, just loud enough to be heard over the crashing waves.
“Come inside,” I repeat.
Eventually, Atlas nods. “Very well, Julian. Take me inside.”
I turn to walk away when a question appears at the forefront of my mind, begging to be answered. “What are you waiting for, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Atlas trails behind me as I begin to walk, and he waits to respond until we slip back inside the castle.
“A cure.”
“What took you so long?” Abigail asks, her lips pouting from where she sits on the couch in front of the fireplace.
I close the door to the music room quietly, crossing the room to find my seat next to her.
“I was talking to Young Master Atlas,” I answer, placing my mug on the low table in front of us.
“About what?” she presses.
“I just told him what I told you; standing outside in the cold for too long isn’t good for your health.”