29. Willow
29
WILLOW
“What’s wrong?” Vincent’s eyes narrow in on me, his anger rolling off him in waves hot enough to dry my damp clothes. His hand slides around my shoulders as he guides me into his mansion, his grip firm—possessive, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
I sniffle, pulling my hoodie closer to my chest, as if that alone could shield me from his scrutiny. “Nothing.”
“Try again,” Vincent snarls, his fingers tightening around the back of my neck. The pressure isn’t enough to hurt, but it’s a warning, a reminder that he knows me too well to believe the lie.
The warmth of his home does nothing to chase away the chill that clings to my skin. Water drips from my sleeves, puddling onto the pristine marble floors, but Vincent doesn’t seem to care. His focus is on me—on my trembling fingers, the way my shoulders curl inward, how I won’t meet his gaze.
I bite my lip, struggling to keep my voice even. “It’s my fault.”
Vincent exhales sharply, his jaw ticking. “Your fault?” His other hand comes up, cupping my chin and tilting my face up to his. His dark blue eyes search mine, scanning every inch, every little crack in the mask I’m trying so desperately trying to keep in place. “You want me to believe that you made yourself cry?”
I swallow hard, but my throat feels raw, like I’ve been screaming without realizing it. The truth claws at my insides, begging to be let out, but I don’t know if I have the strength to say it—to admit how broken I feel.
Vincent’s thumb brushes against my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t noticed falling. His grip on my neck softens just slightly, and I melt into him whispering the words before I know how to stop myself. “Cast says we’re done.”
I shudder, pressing my lips together as if I can keep the words from feeling real. Vincent’s body concaves into himself, eyes falling shut as he curses to himself. “ Fuck.”
My lip wobbles, and I fall into Vincent’s chest. Vincent catches me without hesitation, his arms wrapping around me like a shield against the world. His hold is firm, steady, as if he can keep me from crumbling just by holding me together.
I clutch at his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric, desperate for something—anything—to ground me. My chest feels hollow, aching in a way I don’t know how to fix. “I thought…” My breath hitches, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “I thought he loved me.”
Vincent tenses beneath my touch. His fingers tighten against my back, and I feel the sharp inhale he takes, like he’s swallowing down the first thing he wants to say. Probably something violent.
“Willow,” he murmurs, softer this time, his breath warming the crown of my head. “You listen to me.” He pulls back just enough to tilt my face up, his calloused fingers gentle against my jaw. His dark eyes, usually sharp and cutting, soften as they search mine. “Cast loves you. Damien loves you. I love you.”
I let out a broken breath, my fingers still curled in his shirt. “Then why does it feel like they don’t love me? They left me so easily, Vincent. They didn’t even give me a chance to explain.” My voice shakes, the weight of the words pressing down on my chest. “I would have told them that I wanted them too. That I choose you all.”
His knuckles run along my jaw as he sighs. “I know, baby. I know.” He presses a kiss tightly to my forehead, pulling another sob out of me. “Let’s get you changed, baby.”
Vincent doesn’t wait for me to answer. He just bends down, one arm hooking under my knees, the other bracing my back as he lifts me a light wobble in his step. My arms wrap around his neck instinctively, and I bury my face in his shoulder, inhaling the clean, sharp scent of him—woodsy cologne and something unmistakably Vincent.
“You shouldn’t carry me. Your legs are not at a hundred percent.” I whisper into him as a light grunt leaves his lips and he shifts me in his arms.
“I’m fine, think of it as physical therapy.” He kisses my forehead slowly moving towards the stairs.
“Vincent-” I protest, but he shushes me with a glare.
“Let me do this, princess. I promise I can do this.” He whispers more to himself than me but I nod in agreement as he takes his first step up the stairs.
He carries me upstairs with slow, steady steps, stopping every time he trembles a little too much. The house is eerily quiet, just the soft creak of the staircase beneath his feet and the sound of his ragged breathing.
When we reach his bedroom, something inside me twists. It’s changed since we were kids. The posters on the walls are gone, replaced with sleek, dark decor—rich leather, heavy wooden furniture, an expensive bed that looks like it’s never been slept in. It’s colder than I remember. More like a fortress than a home.
Vincent lowers me onto the bed, his touch lingering, like he’s reluctant to let go. He kneels in front of me, his fingers working at the damp hoodie clinging to my frame. “Arms up,” he murmurs, his voice gentle but firm.
I obey without thinking, lifting my arms so he can pull the hoodie over my head. The air hits my bare skin, sending a shiver down my spine. Vincent’s eyes darken as he takes me in—his gaze lingering a little too long on the way my body trembles. But he doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for the waistband of my leggings, his knuckles grazing my hips as he peels them down my legs.
When I’m left in nothing but my underwear, he stands, his jaw ticking. “Stay here.”
He disappears into the bathroom, and a moment later, I hear the sound of running water. The scent of lavender and honey fills the air, warm and soothing, wrapping around me like a blanket.
When Vincent returns, he scoops me up again, carrying me into the bathroom where a deep, clawfoot tub is already filling with steaming water. He sets me on my feet, his hands lingering at my sides as if making sure I won’t collapse.
His fingers brush my chin, tilting my face up so I have to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to do anything, Willow,” he murmurs. “Just let me take care of you.”
My throat tightens. I nod.
Vincent’s touch is slow, deliberate, as he reaches behind me, unhooking my bra with practiced ease. His knuckles skim my spine as he slides the straps down my arms, letting the fabric fall to the floor. His fingers trail down to the waistband of my panties, hesitating for just a second before slipping them down my legs.
He steps back, his gaze never leaving mine as he gestures to the bath. “Get in, baby.”
I do as he says, sinking into the warm water. The heat soaks into my skin, easing the tension in my muscles, but the ache in my chest remains. Vincent kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves before reaching for a washcloth. He dips it into the water, then runs it over my arm, slow and gentle.
“Relax, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rich, soothing. “Let me take care of you. Worship you.”
“Worship?” I repeat like the word is foreign my mouth.
His hands move lower, cupping water and letting it cascade over my shoulders, washing away the suds. He grabs a fresh cloth, dipping it into the warm water before gliding it along my arms, down my chest, over the curve of my waist. There’s no rush, no urgency—just patience. Devotion.
“You don’t even see yourself, do you?” His voice drops to something just above a whisper, like he’s speaking a prayer. His lips ghost over my shoulder as his fingers continue their slow, tender worship. “The way you glow even when you cry. The way your body moves, like it was carved by the gods. You’re divine , Willow.”
A shiver rolls down my spine, and I turn my face toward him, searching his face for the punchline or lie, but I don't see one. He’s watching me with sincere, burning eyes, his fingers tracing patterns along my damp skin, learning me all over again.
“You’re a goddess,” he says, the words hushed but reverent. He drags his lips along the curve of my shoulder, pressing a lingering kiss there before moving lower, his mouth grazing my collarbone. “And a goddess should be worshiped.”
I gasp as he continues his slow, intoxicating descent, his mouth trailing along my arm, over the inside of my wrist. Each kiss is soft, deliberate, a silent promise.
“And that’s what I’m going to do,” he murmurs. “Every inch of you. Every scar, every curve, every place you’ve ever doubted you were enough. I’ll remind you.”
He takes his time, washing me, and kissing my clean flesh with a tenderness that makes my heart ache.
When he reaches for the shampoo, lathering the soap between his fingers, I swallow hard. “Don’t leave me.”
His hands still. For a moment, I think he’s going to avoid answering. But then he exhales, his thumb brushing against my temple.
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re my everything, Willow. Without you, I might as well be dead.”
Vincent's words settle over me like a warm embrace, their weight sinking into my bones. “ You’re my everything.” He says it like it’s undeniable, like it’s law—like no one, not even fate, can take me from him.
I snort, pushing the warmth away, drawing my knees to my chest and digging my chin in between them. “You’re exaggerating, and ridiculous.”
Vincent pushes his fingers into my hair, pressing firmly on my scalp. The pressure feels good but the second I am about to moan he pulls me back with a snarl. “Come again, princess?”
“Vincent, I am not everything to you.” I snap, his eyes darken to the blue deep ocean hue. “I can’t be.”
“Willow, you are the air I breathe. The food I eat. The person I want to spend eternity with. You are my reason to live. When are you going to believe that?”
I let my eyes slip shut, surrendering to the way he cares for me. “Maybe someday I can, but I believe in you, Vin.”
Vincent sighs, his hands kneading at my back, working through the tension wound so tightly in my muscles, and I melt under his touch. The stress, the pain, the heartbreak—it all dulls under Vincent’s hands, replaced with something warm, something steady.
He dips lower, lips pressing against the top of my breast, his breath warm against my skin.
My throat tightens, my breath catching in my chest. I reach out, threading my fingers through his dark hair, tugging him closer.
He chuckles softly, kissing his way back up to my jaw before capturing my lips in a slow, deep kiss—one that tells me exactly what he means.