Hers To Surrender (His & Hers Duet #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

nathaniel

Marry me.

The room is silent, save for the sound of our breathing, heavy and uneven, filling the space between us. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, each pulse a stark reminder of what just left my lips.

The words still ring in my mind, foreign in their finality.

I love you. Marry me, Olivia.

The weight of each syllable hangs in the air, pressing down on my chest, making it impossible to breathe. My own voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.

But it wasn’t someone else. It was me.

And I meant it.

I don’t regret it either. Not the way I should. Not the way a man who spoke in the heat of passion, in the haze of desperate emotion, should regret a reckless proposal. On the contrary, the longer the words sat, the more certain I became.

I want this. I want her. I want…permanence.

We now lie side by side, facing each other, our bodies tangled in the sheets. The sweat between us has cooled, but the heat hasn’t dissipated. It still clings to my skin, burning behind my ribs.

Her breath fans against my collarbone, steady now, but I can feel the weight of her silence like a knife pressing to my throat. She isn’t rejecting me. But she isn’t accepting me, either.

In fact, she hasn’t acknowledged my proposal at all.

The adrenaline that burned through me only minutes ago has begun to fade, and in its absence, clarity settles in. The truth solidifies, hard and unshakable.

I want to marry Olivia. Not eventually, not someday—now. As soon as possible. I would take her to the courthouse at dawn if I could get her to agree. The thought sends a sharp thrill through me, followed almost instantly by something more urgent.

I tighten my hold on her, my palm spanning her lower back, pressing her closer. I need her answer. I need to hear her say she wants me just as much as I want her. I need her to stay.

“I mean it.” My voice is hoarse, rough with the emotion still lodged in my throat.

Olivia shifts, lifting her head to look at me. Her expression is gentle, but there’s something else there—hesitation. It makes my pulse spike. “My love…I know you do.”

That should be enough, her knowing, but I feel no reprieve. Because knowing doesn’t mean saying yes, and if she isn’t saying yes, then does that mean she wants to say no?

She brushes her fingers through my hair, her touch feather-light, as if trying to calm a storm I haven’t even begun to release. But I see it then, the sadness in her gaze, the careful way she chooses her words.

“You’ve had a long night,” she says softly. “Everything you told me, everything you’ve been holding in for so long…”

Something fractures inside me.

She thinks this is temporary. That my proposal is just a result of my emotions running high. That my confession, my need for her, is just a reaction to my grief. That I’m not thinking clearly.

She’s wrong. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

Panic flares in my chest, quick and sharp. My mind begins to race, my thoughts tumbling into one another, spiraling. What is she saying? That if things were different—if my emotions weren’t so raw, she wouldn’t even be considering it? Is she trying to let me down gently?

The possibility claws at me, threatening to unspool me from the inside out.

“Then tell me you’ll think about it,” I say, my voice tighter now, more insistent. “Seriously.”

She exhales slowly, brushing her lips over my forehead in an attempt to pacify me. “Nathaniel…”

But I can hear the tentativeness in her tone, feel it in the way her fingers falter for just a fraction of a second. It’s unbearable.

I can’t leave it at this. I can’t let this uncertainty fester between us—can’t give her the space to let doubt creep in. If she’s not ready for marriage...fine. But I need something concrete to hold on to.

“If you need time,” I add quickly, reaching for her hand, “then take it. But move in with me when we get back to Boston. For our last semester. Stay with me.”

She stills. Her expression is indecipherable, but I tell myself that her silence means she’s considering it.

As we lie together, her warmth still pressed against me, I try to force myself to settle down, but my mind refuses to quiet. Instead, the fear festers, gnawing at the edges of my mind, whispering insidious possibilities.

What if she’s already decided, but is just prolonging the inevitable?

I wake to warmth.

The familiar weight of Olivia presses against me, her breath slow and steady, her body still tucked into mine beneath the sheets. Relief hits me first—visceral, all-consuming.

She’s still here.

For a long moment, I don’t move. I just breathe her in, letting the scent of her calm the rough edges of my mind.

It’s a miracle I managed to sleep at all last night. Even with Olivia wrapped around me, my thoughts circled like vultures, restless and relentless, clawing at every doubt, every insecurity that had taken root in the aftermath of my proposal.

I tighten my hold on her instinctively, my arm curling around her waist, my fingers flexing against the bare skin of her hip. I need her tethered to me, need to feel her heartbeat against my own.

Olivia stirs against me, shifting slightly. Her lashes flutter, then her eyes open, still hazy with sleep as they land on me. She blinks once, then again, and then she smiles—soft, affectionate, open.

The tightness in my chest eases just a fraction.

“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep.

I swallow, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Morning, baby.”

I press my lips against her shoulder, trailing kisses up the delicate curve of her collarbone. My fingers trace the slope of her spine, the dip of her waist, the warm skin beneath the sheets. I don’t even realize how tightly I’m holding her until she exhales softly, shifting beneath my touch.

She knows. Of course, she does. Olivia always notices everything.

Her fingers slip into my hair, her nails scraping lightly against my scalp in a slow, soothing motion. I close my eyes at the sensation, exhaling deeply, my grip on her tightening.

“I love you,” she whispers, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

I will never tire of hearing it. I never want to stop feeling that sharp, aching pull in my chest whenever she says it.

"I love you too.”

I want to say more. Be mine in every way. Marry me. But I keep it to myself. For now.

Olivia shifts, moving the blankets aside as she makes to leave the bed.

Before I can think, I reach out, wrapping my fingers around her wrist, my hold firm but not forceful.

She stills, glancing down at where I hold her, then back at my face. Her expression softens, her lips parting slightly—not in surprise, but in understanding.

She understands. Of course she does. Olivia is probably the only person who has ever truly known me.

She opens her mouth to say something, but just then, my phone buzzes.

I ignore it, but it immediately buzzes again, the persistent vibration grating against my already frayed nerves.

Olivia’s gaze flicks toward the nightstand, and I follow her eyes, watching as my phone lights up with another incoming call.

Mother.

I clench my jaw.

“She can wait,” I mutter, my fingers still wrapped around Olivia’s wrist.

Olivia’s free hand reaches to cup my face, her thumb brushing over my cheek in a calming stroke.

“It must be important if she’s calling again.”

I don’t let go of her immediately. I hold on for a second longer, just to feel her.

Then, with reluctant fingers, I reach for the phone.

“Good morning, mother,” I say, my tone clipped.

My mother’s voice flows through the speaker, smooth and measured, as always. “Good morning, darling. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

I cast a glance at Olivia beside me. She’s curled up under the sheets, watching me attentively. No irritation at the interruption, only patience. Her presence soothes me.

“You didn’t,” I say shortly, unwilling to indulge in pleasantries.

Renée exhales softly. “Christmas Eve is approaching quickly,” she says. “There are some arrangements I want to discuss with you.”

I resist the urge to sigh, already dreading where this is going.

She continues. “I’d like Olivia to spend the afternoon with me. A few close family friends will be joining—just a small gathering, nothing too formal. I thought it would be a wonderful way to introduce her more fully to our world.”

My grip on the phone tightens. I can already hear the subtext beneath her carefully chosen words. A friendly gesture, she would say, but I know better. This is an evaluation. A step toward pulling Olivia into the Caldwell orbit and the expectations that come along with it.

I say nothing, so my mother continues, “Your father would also like to have lunch with you this afternoon. Just the two of you. He”—she pauses, choosing her words with care—“wants to spend some time with his son.”

I scoff, the sound sharp and derisive. “Is that what he said?”

Mother sighs. “Nathaniel.”

I clench my jaw.

The dinner last night made it clear where I stood with Charles Caldwell—beneath the shadow of a dead son, an heir he would always prefer. And now, this lunch isn’t an invitation; it’s a reminder. A calculated way to assert control after the tension that simmered between us at the table.

“Olivia doesn’t need to be paraded around for family approval,” I say tersely.

“Darling, this isn’t about scrutiny,” she counters, her voice laced with amusement.

“It’s about inclusion. If Olivia is going to be a part of your life, she will need to form her own relationships within the family.

This is an opportunity for her to do that on her own terms, beyond just being your Olivia. ”

My jaw locks. She is my Olivia. I don’t give a damn about her forming connections with my family. She belongs to me, not to them. That should be enough.