Chapter 27
LYRA
The graveyard is located in the Garden District. It’s bordered by a wrought-iron fence, through which you can see whitewashed tombs and moss-draped oaks.
“I was twelve the first time my grandmother brought me here,” I tell Julian, letting my gaze drift over the various gorgeous stones and mausoleums. “She used to say that never really letting people go was a tradition in New Orleans. You keep them close to your heart by bringing flowers and talking to them like they’re an old friend, and you’re just stopping by for a visit. ”
“Your grandmother sounds like she would’ve gotten along well with my mother. She had similar thoughts about the dead. They were never really gone in her mind. When I was younger, I used to think it was a bit silly to think that way.”
The thought of Julian’s mother and my grandmother knowing each other—impossible though it might be—brings a small smile to my lips.
“And what do you think now?”
“Now?” He gives the question a few beats of serious thought. “Now that I’ve lost people I care about, I understand it a little better.”
We stop at a weathered but well-maintained white marble tomb in the third row, the name ROSE THIBODEAUX etched above the dates. I set down the small bouquet I’d bought on the way over—yellow roses—her favorite.
I point to a stone bench up ahead.
“We’d sit on that bench together, and she’d tell me stories about the people buried here.
She was a notorious gossip; it was like she knew everyone in this town, dead or alive.
She even told me some of them walked the Quarter on rainy nights.
She’s the reason I love Anne Rice—she gave me the book Interview with the Vampire when I was thirteen. I thought Mama was going to kill her.”
Julian is quiet at my side, listening and letting me talk through my memories.
When I’m silent for a beat, he clears his throat. “I haven’t been to my parents’ grave since I’ve been back.”
He says the words quietly, like it’s something he’s ashamed of.
“They’re in New York?”
He nods. “Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. My mother is next to her sister’s plot. My father is beside her.” A pause. “I’ve been back for weeks now but still haven’t gone.”
“Why not?”
He considers the question, as if he’s not sure of the answer.
“Because… I don’t know what I’d say. Everything seems so uncertain now. My father wanted me to protect the empire.”
“You are,” I tell him.
“That remains to be seen,” he says. “And my mother… she wanted me to be a good man. I’m even more uncertain about that.”
I cock my head to the side, regarding him with skepticism. “Julian, you run orphanages. You flew with me to New Orleans at midnight to sit with me in a waiting room for a man you’ve never met. And you paid for his surgery without being asked.” I take his hand. “Your mother would be proud of you.”
“You didn’t know her.” There’s a brusqueness to his tone, as if he doesn’t agree with the idea that he is a good man.
I’m not about to let him get away with it.
“Maybe not, but I know you. And whatever she poured into you, whatever made you build Irina’s House and bring cookies for those kids and fly across the country for me… that all came from somewhere. And I’m guessing it was her.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it, but he doesn’t say a word. He swallows hard, his eyes fixed forward. I can sense that something’s different, something has shifted.
We sit there for a few minutes longer. It’s turning out to be a beautiful day—cool, with a slight breeze and only a touch of humidity in the air.
“You should go,” I say. “When we get back to New York, you should go see them.”
He nods. And as he squeezes my hand, I feel something that I’ve never felt from Julian Volkov before.
Trust.
He’s trusting me with a part of himself that he doesn’t show anyone else. It’s the part that grieves and misses those he loved. The part that doubts who he is as a man.
There’s so much I want to say, but I stay silent. I hold his hand tighter, letting that be enough.
We get back to the house as the sun is setting, painting the clapboard siding amber and rose. The porch swing creaks in the breeze while the magnolia tree throws long shadows across the yard.
Mom texted an hour ago. She came home to shower and grab some clothes and will be staying at the hospital.
Dad is stable and sleeping comfortably. I told her I’d be there soon to stay with her, but she responded by telling me that I needed to stay home and get a good night’s sleep—not to mention be hospitable to our guest.
I can’t believe we’re both still standing upright, considering neither of us have slept in over twenty-four hours.
Julian’s gazing out the window over the kitchen sink that overlooks the back lawn.
I lean against the counter and look at this man in Mama’s kitchen, in my dad’s ratty old T-shirt, and know exactly what I need.
“Julian.”
“Lyra.”
“Come here.”
His hands find my waist. I stand on my tiptoe the way I always have to whenever I kiss him. He leans down, and when his lips touch mine, I nearly cry.
We kiss slowly, tenderly. I open my mouth and his tongue glides over mine, his arms wrapping around me.
I take his hand and lead him out of the kitchen, down the hallway to my old childhood bedroom.
It’s the same as I remember—twin bed, lavender walls, and a bookshelf full of Anne Rice, Toni Morrison, and Jane Austin, the dog-eared copy of Little Women my grandmother gave me when I turned ten on the nightstand next to the bed.
The window is cracked open just enough to let in the fresh air, the breeze carrying the faint scent of magnolia.
Julian looks at the twin bed and raises a brow in skepticism, silently plotting out the logistics of the matter.
“We’ll manage,” I say with a small smile.
I push the borrowed tee off his shoulders, revealing the lean, muscled, and tattooed lines of his torso. I place my hand gently on the bandage.
“It’s fine,” he says, then winces, catching himself using the word I’ve grown to hate. “It’s healing well. Nothing to worry about.”
I nod, my gaze going back to the bandage. He took a bullet for me, placing himself in the line of fire without thinking twice about it. I lean in and kiss the gauze, his hand coming up and cupping the back of my head.
“Lyra…”
“Shh.” I sink to my knees on the worn rug, working open his belt and zipper.
His cock springs free, already hard for me. I lean forward and lick away the bead of cum on the tip, savoring the sweet taste before wrapping my hand around the base and looking up at him.
After everything—the hospital, the cemetery, paying for Dad’s surgery—I want to give him this. I want to show him that I see the man who doubts himself, the one who grieves, and I want him even more because of it.
I take him into my mouth slowly, and he groans with pleasure.
His heat and heft on my tongue is delicious as ever, that faintly salty taste moving over my tongue.
Another groan rumbles from his chest as I take more of him into my mouth.
My hand strokes whatever my mouth can’t reach, as I swirl my tongue around his head.
I moan softly around him, the vibration making his hips twitch. Julian slips his fingers into my hair, holding me there gently, as if I’m something precious.
“Fuck, baby, your mouth feels like heaven,” he says, his voice raspy. “You feel so goddamn good.”
I work him with slow, loving strokes until his breath turns ragged. I smile as I work, imagining bringing him right to the edge and then over it, what it would be like to feel him erupt inside my mouth, tasting that rich sweetness all the way down my throat.
But I don’t. I pull off with a soft pop and stand, shedding my own clothes as he drinks in the sight of my naked body. He lifts me effortlessly onto the edge of the bed and drops to his knees between my thighs, spreading them wide.
The first touch of his tongue is a slow, broad lick that makes my back arch, and the words Oh God pour from my mouth.
He hums against me, the vibration shooting straight to my core.
Julian eats me like I’m a delicious dessert—long, thorough strokes of his tongue followed by gentle suction on my clit that has me whimpering.
Two fingers slide into me, curling against my G-spot. His tongue plays me like an instrument that he’s a goddamn virtuoso at, and I close my eyes, feeling the worship, the pleasure.
“Julian.” My hands fist the quilt on my bed as the orgasm builds fast and sweet.
Then it hits, cresting in a warm, rolling wave that pulls a soft cry from my throat.
My walls flutter around his fingers, and he stays with me through every pulse, licking me all the way through until the orgasm fades and I’m left trembling and whimpering.
He crawls up my body and turns us sideways on the bed. I giggle at the sight of this tall, muscular man on such a small mattress, his legs dangling off the end, his broad shoulders nearly the width of the bed.
In one impressive, swift move, he flips us over.
I straddle his hips; my hands braced on his chest. His cock nestles hot and hard against my entrance, and I grasp it, sinking down slowly, taking him inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt.
We both moan at the stretch, at the perfect fit.
The bed creaks beneath us as I begin to move, slow rolls of my hips, grinding my clit against him with every stroke.
“Look at me,” he whispers, his hands sliding up my thighs to grip my waist. His eyes hold mind, dark yet open in a way I’ve rarely seen. “You feel so fucking perfect, Lyra. Like you were made for me.”
I ride him deep and fast, my breasts bouncing while pleasure coils tightly in my belly.
His praise, the way he watches me, hungry and adoring, pushes me over the edge again.
The second orgasm hits harder than the first, a bright burst that makes me clench around him hard.
I cry out his name, and he groans, thrusting up to meet me.
Before I can catch my breath, he flips us again, sliding back inside with one smooth glide. The new angle makes me gasp, then moan, the pleasure absolutely delectable.
He moves with deep, rolling strokes, his pubic bone grinding against my clit on every deep thrust.
I love you.
As the words come to mind, they scare me and I freeze up.
“Are you alright?” he asks, sensing that something’s off.
“Yes. I’m good.” I smile. “Keep going.”
He regards me with an expression of slight skepticism, sweat beading on his forehead. I reach up and pull him down for another deep kiss. It gets him started again, giving me what I need.
He drives into me harder, my breasts rocking back and forth, my ankles locked at the small of his back, holding him right where I want him. He continues to kiss me, and it feels like he’s pouring his soul into it.
“God, you’re everything. My woman.”
I moan at his words, the third orgasm building slow and powerful. His thrusts grow faster but stay controlled, each one reaching that perfect spot. When the orgasm is right on the cusp and I start to shake, he presses his forehead against mine.
“Come with me, baby. Let me feel you.”
That’s all it takes. We crest together, my walls pulsing around him in deep, rhythmic waves, pleasure crashing through me bright and endless. Julian groans my name as he pulses and drains, his body shuddering against mine. We cling to each other through every aftershock, hearts hammering in sync.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.” I nuzzle closer. “Though we might break the bed if we do that again.”
A quiet laugh rumbles through him. His arm tightens around my waist, one hand cupping the back of my head.
He kisses my forehead. “I’d sleep on the floor if it meant holding you like this.”
I smile and close my eyes as I hold him tighter.