Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Martine Lilian Herron
Iwake up sore.
Not the kind of sore that makes me regret it, no. It’s the kind that reminds me I gave myself over completely. My body hums with it. Between my legs, across my chest, down my spine. Every place he touched feels branded.
My mouth is dry, and my head is hazy from the pill. I don’t bother questioning myself. I swallowed it because I wanted to feel weightless, and I did.
I shift under the sheets, wincing slightly at the soreness in my muscles and between my legs. There’s a sticky mess on my upper thighs that automatically makes me clench my legs together without thought.
A disappointed rock settles in my gut when I see his side of the bed is cold and empty again.
The room is quiet, and it’s difficult to ignore the tightness in my chest from waking up alone. I crave the way he pieces me together after breaking me down. The desire to curl up in his arms and cry is weighing my lungs down, making it difficult to breathe.
There are no gentle knocks at the door, no distant clinking of silverware, no rustling of fresh linens. No demands from a brooding kidnapper turned husband.
I pull his robe off the armchair and wrap it around me, craving him on my skin. It’s oversized cotton, heavy, and warm with the scent of him. I move slowly, barefoot, wading through the aftermath of last night. Each step down the stairs pulls at a muscle I didn’t know existed.
When I reach the landing, I hear quiet movements in the kitchen and the sound of the espresso machine.
I follow the noise and am met with an unexpected sight that freezes me in place.
Hayden is alone in the kitchen, without a staff member in sight.
No shirt. Just black pajama pants and bare feet. His back is to me, tall and lean and absurdly relaxed, like this is normal. Like he belongs in a kitchen, making…coffee?
The scene before me is jarring. I’ve really only been with Hayden in a few places within the Estate that aren’t the dining room or atop his bed. This is territory I don’t understand, and I hate that my heart warms when I see him like this.
The sun from the window dusts his shoulders, and my mouth waters. Watching him move with ease, doing something so domestic, makes my stomach clench.
He turns slightly when he hears me, unsurprised by my presence.
His eyes are guarded, but his dark blonde hair is slightly tousled, giving him an almost relaxed appearance despite his tough exterior.
I watch him fight with his feelings for me, and I protect myself by doing the same. When will we finally end this battle? When will I stop hating myself for loving what he does to my body?
I want to run across the kitchen to him. The war I see in his eyes is telling me he wants to do the same. Neither of us moves.
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Once I straighten my back, I find my bravery, “You’re making coffee?”
He nods once, glancing down at the espresso machine. “Don’t look so shocked.”
“I thought you didn’t know how to do…domestic things.”
He shrugs. “I know how. I just don’t have to. Usually.”
I glance around. Still no one. Not even that quiet housekeeper who floats in and out like a ghost. “Where is everyone?”
“They’re off for the morning,” he says it casually, pouring a shot of espresso into a porcelain cup.
I blink. “Why?” His calm focus and nonchalant movements are tilting my world; his actions are shoving him into an unfamiliar category in my mind.
I’ve never seen Hayden truly tender, and this isn’t that.
He’s focused, methodical, and caring for me as though he were an animal.
Deep inside his actions, his care in preparing coffee, and his soft words, I see a glimmer of possibly more.
It’s safer if I convince myself that it’s just hopeful thinking.
He looks at me then—fully. Like he’s taking inventory of how I’m standing, how I’m holding his robe closed at the collar, how sore I am without me even saying it.
“Do you ever shut up?” he asks simply.
I barely bristle, used to his barbs that cover up feelings much deeper than either of us is ready to admit.
He walks over and presses a soft kiss to my forehead and hands me the cup, and I take it before I think to question anything else. His fingers graze mine, and it sends a current straight through me.
I take a sip, and his eyes stay on me, steady, unreadable.
The coffee is perfect.
"You drugged me,” I say, quiet but precise.
“Technically, you drugged yourself,” he replies.
My throat tightens, but I don’t argue. I don’t hand the cup back. I keep drinking.
Because the truth is, I did let go. And part of me wants to fall even deeper.
“I’m not one of your pliable little toys, Hayden.”
He leans in, voice a low rasp. “No. You’re better.”
I hate how that makes me feel. Seen. Chosen. Like, I’m the only one who gets this version of him when we have no clarity between us of what this really is.
“You sent the staff away just to impress me with your kitchen skills?”
“I wanted my wife to wake up to me,” he says, “not the kitchen staff.”
“And you didn’t think I’d want, I don’t know…a little explanation this morning of what my husband did to me?”
He shrugs. “You chose to take the pill, knowing it’s for only me to know what I did with you.”
“Did you get what you wanted?” I ask softly.
He surprises me with his response, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I got more.”
I look at him, confused by the tenderness in his voice.
He must be joking. I laugh once, sharply. “You’re such an asshole.”
He smirks. “No, I’m worse.”
God help me.
He turns away from me, picking up his own coffee like we’re just...two people. Normal. Sharing a quiet morning.
But it’s not quiet. Not for me.
His back is to me, but he’s not dismissing me. Not exactly. Just withholding, like he always is. Hayden, in soft lighting, barefoot and brewing espresso, is still Hayden, his teeth bared.
“This is obscene,” I say, watching him closely.
“What is?” he says, in his expert way of feigning innocence under the disguise of control.
There’s a strange openness to him this morning, but it’s not soft. It’s unnerving. Like a storm that’s calmed just enough to make you think it’s passed, even when the worst is still circling overhead.
He finally looks at me.
A ghost of a smile twitches at his mouth. Gone in a blink.
I set the mug down. “I was expecting my uncle at the meeting with the attorney. Do you know what happened to him?”
His gaze shifts to me again, sharper now. Still calm, but with edges.
“He didn’t show,” I say. “No call. No message. Not even his assistant.”
Silence.
“Hayden.”
“That’s not something you need to concern yourself with.”
I scoff. “It’s not like him to not show up after staking claim to my entire estate.”
Another beat of silence. He sips his coffee. Casual, detached. Too detached.
“You know something,” I say. “Don’t you?”
“I know a lot of things.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You want an answer, or do you just want something to be upset about?”
That stings more than it should. And we’re back to the beginning, before I even realize we’re here.
“I want the truth.”
He sets his cup down. The soft clink of porcelain on marble sounds far louder than it should.
“You’re sore. You’re tired. It sounds like you’re begging to be punished, and it’s my decision when you’ve had enough,” he steps toward me again, close enough that I can see the faint shadows under his eyes. “Would you like me to punish you? Is that it?”
I clench my jaw. “I don’t need anything from you. Your constant silence is betrayal enough.”
On some level, it’s clear he cares for me.
I feel it in the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, in the way he remembers how I take my coffee, or how he knew I’d be sore this morning.
There’s affection there, buried beneath layers of obsession and control.
But Hayden doesn’t know how to care in any way that feels normal.
I don’t think he’s ever lived in a world where a woman needs attention. He doesn’t understand softness unless it’s given to him in silence or submission. He doesn’t understand nurturing. He only knows how to possess. How to tend to his little pet.
Even now, standing in this kitchen where he looks impossibly human, shirtless, barefoot, coffee mug in hand, he’s a fortress. Beautiful, cold, impenetrable. He gives pieces of himself in measured doses, like affection is a luxury good he can’t afford to offer too freely.
He looks down at me, still so calm it’s infuriating. That perfectly blank expression he always wears when he wants to make you feel like the irrational one. But something is flickering beneath it—a crack.
Frustration, maybe. Or restraint.
Like he’s holding something back, words, reactions, truths I’m not ready to hear. Or worse, truths he isn’t prepared to say.
“Your uncle wasn’t available,” he says finally.
“And why wasn’t he available, Hayden?”
His jaw tightens. Barely. But I catch it.
“It’s the only answer I’m giving you right now,” he says, calm and clipped.
I take a step back, not because I’m afraid, but because I need air. I need space from the weight of him, the stillness, the lack of concern. From the things I feel for him that are clouding my judgment.
He doesn’t follow.
And somehow, that feels worse than if he had grabbed my wrist and dragged me back to him. Because this version of him, the one who doesn’t need to chase, who knows I’ll come back anyway, that’s the one who scares me most.
I stop at the threshold of the room, coffee forgotten in my hand. I could walk away. I should walk away.
But I don’t.
I whip back around, spinning on my heel, my voice sharper now, throat tight with something I don’t want to name. “Was he unavailable because of something you did?”
His gaze lifts to mine, slow and deliberate.
Silence stretches between us like a fuse waiting to catch.
“Be careful,” he says softly, but it’s not a warning; it’s a reminder. Of who he is, of what I already know.