Chapter 39
THIRTY NINE
SOFTNESS BENEATH ME. Smooth sheets against my bare skin. The comforting weight of a heavy duvet.
My eyelids feel thick. I blink, opening them slowly, adjusting to the muted morning light filtering through the blinds, painting pale stripes across an unfamiliar ceiling.
Where…?
Memory hits me in a vivid, relentless reel:
Roger’s sneering face. The glint of the knife. The stain of blood on the foyer tiles. The cascading water in the shower. Matthew’s raw agony. The shared tears. The desperate heat of our bodies. Falling asleep tangled together…
In his bed.
Here.
I bolt upright, clutching the thick duvet protectively against my chest, heart slamming against my ribs. My eyes dart around the room, confirming what memory insists is true.
The space beside me in this enormous bed is empty.
My gaze sweeps the room, taking it in properly for the first time. It’s undeniably masculine, calm and ordered in shades of grey and deep blue. A heavy dark wood dresser, matching nightstands, a light grey leather armchair in the corner. Nothing like the guest room I stayed in before.
This is his room.
His sanctuary.
And I’m naked in his bed.
Alone.
A frantic scan of the space reveals no trace of my clothes.
Where are they?
Where is he?
The questions spiral, tightening a knot of anxiety in my stomach.
My eyes land on the foot of the bed. Neatly folded there, stark against the navy blue duvet, is a thick white bathrobe.
Hesitantly, I push back the covers. The morning air raises immediate goosebumps on my bare skin.
I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and pad across the plush carpet to retrieve the robe.
I slip my arms into its sleeves, wrapping it around myself, cinching the belt tight at my waist. It’s huge on me. The sleeves swallow my hands; the hem falls near my ankles. But the terrycloth is thick, incredibly soft, and carries his faint, clean scent. Cedarwood and amber.
I enter the adjoining ensuite bathroom. The air is still faintly humid, warmer than the bedroom. My gaze snags immediately on the large, glass-enclosed shower stall.
Empty.
Spotless.
Tiles dry. No trace of the raw grief and desperate connection that unfolded there just hours ago. It looks sterile, making the memories feel almost unreal.
Almost.
A sudden wave of heat spreads across my skin.
The electric feel of his bare skin against mine…
The desperate fusion of our mouths and bodies…
The unbearable tenderness in his eyes as he knelt before me, drying my skin with such focused reverence…
My cheeks flush hot at the vividness of the memory. The sheer intensity of the connection forged right there, on those tiles.
Feeling shy and overwhelmed by the weight of it all, I force my gaze away, turning toward the wide vanity. I splash cold water on my face, trying to erase the lingering exhaustion and emotional residue from my features.
Looking in the mirror is a mistake.
My eyes are puffy, my cheeks flushed, hair a mess. I smooth it down, take a deep breath, and steel myself to leave the relative safety of his bedroom.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, I listen.
The house below is quiet.
I descend, my bare feet silent on the plush runner covering the wood treads.
Reaching the main floor, I notice the blood has been cleaned from the tiles.
As if the ugly violence that violated this home could be so easily erased.
A faint, rhythmic thudding floats up from downstairs.
A muffled grunt.
And another thud.
Hesitantly, I start down the basement stairs, each step creaking softly. The thudding grows louder, now joined by the harsh sound of expelled air.
Sharp exhalations.
Grunts of effort.
Rounding the corner, my eyes land on Matthew.
His back is to me as he unleashes a brutal, relentless assault on the heavy bag. He’s shirtless, his broad back gleaming with sweat, muscles cording and releasing with each powerful impact. His black sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing the sharp lines of his hipbones.
Each blow lands with focused fury, his entire body pouring pent-up energy into the worn leather.
I should say something, should let him know I’m here, but the words won’t come. A part of me wants to turn and run back upstairs, but another part, a stronger part, keeps me rooted to the spot.
I lean against the wall, mesmerized. His raw power is a magnetic force. It pulls a memory to the surface, immediate and visceral:
The feel of his hands on my skin... the heat of his body pressed to mine…
The memory alone is enough to make an insistent heat pool deep in my belly.
I stifle a moan, eyes fluttering shut against the force of it.
The sudden silence is as jarring as the noise had been.
I can still hear his ragged breathing, and then the faint creak of the chain as the bag slowly stops swaying.
I register the soft pad of his feet approaching.
I open my eyes only to have them crash into green depths ablaze with desire.
His gaze travels down my neck, past my collarbone to my chest, his jaw clenching hard.
I forget to breathe.
He closes the distance between us, planting a hand flat on the wall beside my head. He swipes his glistening temple against his extended arm, wiping away sweat.
“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” His voice is a rough growl, vibrating with the effort of control.
His free hand comes up to grip the thick lapel of my robe. With a firm but gentle tug, he pulls the edges securely together over my chest.
Heat floods my face. My hands fly up to clutch the front of the robe tightly. “I didn’t realize… I-I couldn’t find my clothes,” I stammer, my face inches from his.
His hand leaves the robe and lifts to my cheek, his knuckles ever so softly caressing my skin. “We need to talk, love,” he says, his voice still rough, but quieter now.
A muscle jumps in his jaw, as if even that gentle contact is too much. Inhaling sharply, he pulls his hand back, pushes off the wall, and turns.
He strides past me toward the stairs without another word.
I’m left trembling in the space where he stood.
My mind struggles to make sense of the storm in his eyes. A war between the raw hunger that pulled me closer and the deep pain that pushed me away. A battle between the steel of his control and the memory of a tenderness that had completely undone me.
Exposed.
Out of place.
The feelings send me scrambling back up the basement stairs. I cross the foyer, my footsteps the only sound in the vast, empty space. I take the main staircase one feverish step at a time.
It’s on the landing that I hear it.
The unmistakable sound of running water coming from the room at the end of the hall.
His room.
His shower.
My cheeks burn. A strange mix of longing and panic explodes in my chest.
I take a step back, then another, my hand reaching out to grip the banister for support.
Turning sharply, I flee back down the stairs, my feet making soft thuds on the carpet.
I need space. I need air. I need…
Something to do.
Something normal.
The kitchen.
That’s where I’ll go.
Coffee.
I’ll make coffee.
I reach the main floor and head to the open archway.
Sunlight streams through the large windows, illuminating the kitchen with a bright, almost harsh, clarity.
Stainless steel appliances gleam, the countertops are spotless, and everything is in its place.
The French press sits waiting on the counter behind the island.
My hands search for a familiar rhythm in an unfamiliar kitchen.
His kettle. His grinder. His French press.
My actions are nothing more than a temporary shield against the swirling chaos inside.
The roar of the grinder is a welcome violence in the otherwise pristine silence, momentarily drowning out my own thoughts. Soon, the rich aroma of coffee will fill the air. A small, solid thing to hold on to. But the quiet moments between actions are treacherous. An image slams into me, unbidden:
The intensity in his eyes, inches from my own… his knuckles caressing my cheek…
I push the thoughts away fiercely, trying to concentrate on anything but him.
A glint of metal in the sink catches my eye. My hands jerk a little at the sight.
The knife.
The one pressed to Roger’s neck, his sinister face vivid in my mind. Matthew’s chilling accusation, “You killed her,” echoes alongside his own raw vulnerability. His broken confession under the shower’s spray…
The turbulent memories play on a loop as my body moves on autopilot.
I reach into the cupboard for two mugs. My hands are steady as I pour the steaming liquid, but my mind is miles away, filling each one to the brim without noticing.
“You made coffee.”
Matthew’s voice from the doorway makes me jump.
Coffee sloshes over the rim, the hot liquid scalding my hand.
It splashes across the pristine white countertop, runs down the sleek grey cabinet fronts, and drips onto the floor near my bare feet.
Shaking my burnt fingers, I turn sharply and freeze mid-motion as I take him in.
Gone is the sweaty, shirtless man from the basement, consumed by rage.
Gone is the shattered, sobbing man in the shower, stripped bare by grief.
Gone is the tender, exhausted man who carried me to bed.
Standing before me now is Matthew Warren, Senior Counsel.
Immaculate in a perfectly tailored charcoal grey suit that fits his broad shoulders flawlessly.
Crisp white shirt. Muted silver and black silk tie, expertly knotted.
His dark hair is meticulously styled, combed back, showing only the faintest hint of lingering dampness at the roots.
Jaw clean-shaven. Posture controlled, upright, radiating a cool, professional confidence.
The transformation is whiplash-inducing.
He’s rebuilt his walls, fortified his armor, with breathtaking speed.
I stare at him, the spilled coffee forgotten, searching this intimidating stranger for any trace of the broken man whose grief I held. Whose skin I touched.