27. Chapter Twenty-Seven - Playful Boundaries
At some point during the delightful chaos of floral decisions and silk swatch debates, Belinda—or at least I assumed it was her—slipped into the room carrying a polished tray.
From the corner of my eye, I watched her set it on the table between us.
Silent and meticulous, she handled the apples and mandarins with the same care most people reserved for fine jewelry.
It made me hyperaware that I was in a house where even the simplest things, like grabbing a snack, felt like an orchestrated event.
Then Anna reached for the fruit.
She picked up a slice of apple with lazy grace, bit into it, chewed, and swallowed, then followed it with a mandarin segment, licking the juice from her fingertips with a motion that felt almost defiantly human.
Only then did I realize I’d been holding my breath, like I was waiting for her to fail some unspoken “Human Eating Test.”
I exhaled slowly, my shoulders loosening.
It didn’t erase the suspicion clawing at the back of my mind, but it grounded me again. Maybe it was just a cultural thing. Maybe they were rich enough that casual eating didn’t exist in their world. I didn’t know.
We’d just wrapped up the last details for the wreath. She wanted it wild but tasteful, pale roses tangled with deep green foliage.
“Like mourning the end of single life,” she’d joked.
That was when I felt it. A hand resting on my shoulder, easy and familiar.
A shiver shot straight down my spine.
I turned, already scowling, fingers twitching on instinct, and of course… it was him.
Culver stood behind me, smiling down like a boy who’d found his favorite stray cat contemplating an escape route. I hadn’t heard him approach. Either I’d been too wrapped up in floral theory, or he genuinely moved like some ninja straight out of a movie.
“Is it time already?” I asked, my voice landing somewhere between a sigh and a pout.
I hadn’t meant to sound disappointed, but there it was anyway, tugging at my cheeks.
I’d been happy. Making a friend, feeling useful, remembering the version of myself who liked creating beauty just for the sake of it, not because it made money or got views or made other people pay attention.
Culver leaned down, closing the space between us until the moment stretched taut, his breath brushing my cheek as his gaze softened.
“When is our wedding, my little lamb?” he murmured, mischief threading through the words, playful on the surface but edged with something that didn’t feel entirely like a joke.
Heat crawled up my neck, quick and embarrassing.
“How about you worry about the wedding that’s actually happening?” I muttered, cheeks burning as I tried to salvage my dignity. “She’s the one who deserves the attention on her big day.”
Anna giggled from her seat, lounging with the kind of elegance that felt almost hereditary at this point.
“What a stunning pair you make,” she said.
I looked away before I could combust.
Culver didn’t let up. His smirk deepened as he tracked my reaction, his eyes always a little too observant. I stood abruptly and elbowed him in the side. Not that it did anything. He absorbed it with effortless ease, which only made me want to elbow him again.
“I don’t see it,” I declared firmly, as if saying it loud enough would make it true for both of us.
His voice dropped, slower now, the cadence shifting.
“What exactly is there to deny?” he asked, his gaze pinning mine. “We suit each other perfectly.”
My heart stumbled.
It shook me, not because it felt wrong, but because some stubborn, sneaky part of me was already nodding along, wanting it to be true.
“I’ll deny it until the day I die,” I snapped, folding my arms and looking anywhere but at him. It was meant to sound sharp and defensive. Instead, it came out too honest, a little scared… like a kid refusing to name something they already knew.
Both of them laughed in sync, and I puffed my cheeks. I didn’t get the joke. Their shared laughter made me feel like I was missing something, like there was a whole language being spoken around me that I couldn’t quite understand.
Instead of saying anything else, I drifted toward the far side of the room, where paintings and sculptures waited in curated stillness.
It was easier to focus on things that didn’t look back.
I let my gaze skim over canvases and metalwork, pretending to understand them when really I was just trying to get my ribcage to stop buzzing. Their laughter lingered faintly in the background, ghostlike and persistent, until silence finally settled again.
I didn’t hear footsteps, but I felt him.
His breath brushed the shell of my ear. “We can return another time to admire the art, if you would prefer.”
I startled, jerking slightly. “Jump-scaring me costs you points,” I muttered, refusing to look at him.
A quiet, amused chuckle followed, unhurried, like my reactions were his favorite form of entertainment. “And how many points have I lost?”
“You’re in the negatives,” I grumbled as we neared the stairs. “Which means I officially dislike you.”
“Does it?” he mused, his accent curling around me.
Heat flared without permission, and I nearly squeaked. He wasn’t touching me, but it felt like he was.
He laughed again, clearly noting the flush on my cheeks. I clenched my fist and nudged his arm harder.
“I swear, I’m gonna beat you up.”
“So violent,” he drawled, mock-offended.
I huffed, trying to hold onto my irritation despite the smile tugging at my mouth.
“I couldn’t actually hurt you,” I shot back. “It probably wouldn’t even faze you.”
“Hm. We may not know unless you try,” Culver replied, his gaze lowering to meet mine. “Physically speaking, of course.”
I tilted my head, meeting his eyes with a new awareness.
Maybe I couldn’t hurt him with my hands. That much felt obvious.
But emotionally? That was another story entirely.
I let the thought settle quietly and didn’t give it a voice.
Instead, I turned back toward Anna, who still sat as though time bent around her rather than the other way around. She lifted her teacup with unhurried grace, her eyes drifting over the photos laid out before her as if savoring each one.
“Anna, this was so fun,” I called, genuine warmth rising into my voice. “I can’t wait to do it again.”
Her gaze lifted, soft and dreamy.
“Next time, we must include Eunice. She adores you.” She raised her hand in an elegant wave. “Until next time, delicate flower.”
The nickname didn’t feel condescending. It felt… kind.
I waved back, smiling too wide to care, then left the photos with her and turned toward the stairs, a bounce in my step as I hummed softly without realizing it.
Culver fell into stride beside me, of course, as if proximity to me was the most natural place for him to be.
His steps were measured and quiet, like they followed some invisible blueprint.
“Do you even know where you’re wandering off to?” he asked lightly, his eyes tracking me with quiet amusement.
I froze mid-step, embarrassment blooming fast and hot.
Clearing my throat with a small “A-hem,” I grabbed the railing like it might point me in the right direction. “No. I was just… happy. I got a little distracted.”
He smiled but didn’t comment, and somehow the lack of commentary felt reassuring. He had a way of pulling me back gently, never making me feel foolish for letting my thoughts run ahead of me.
“Adorably so, my little lamb,” he murmured. “Your hand, if you will.”
“Stop doing that,” I grumbled, but my fingers slid into his palm anyway, instinct overriding common sense. The contact sparked, like a live wire humming beneath my skin.
“I bask in your flustered expression with pride,” he whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face with tenderness.
I twisted the hem of my shirt between my fingers, trying to hold myself together as that vulnerability edged closer.
“Culver,” I said, forcing the words out before they could dissolve entirely. “I guess we don’t have a title for what we are.” I swallowed hard. “So can I get with someone—"
His hand covered my mouth again.
“No.” The word came out low and strained.
His grip tightened around my hand, his expression twisting into something painfully close to desperation. “No one else. Please… I beg you.”
Shock raced down my spine as his chilled palm pressed against my lips, my brows shooting up because damn, he was actually begging. Not barking orders like I might’ve expected, but pleading in a raw, unguarded way.
When he lifted his hand, I exhaled shakily, watching him wrestle whatever storm was raging inside him back into submission. His jaw was tight, his eyes darker than before.
“Does the thought of—” I started, then stopped when his gaze flickered with warning. I recalibrated. “Is it really that bad?”
“Terribly so,” he muttered, breathing like the idea physically hurt him.
I tugged at our joined hands, forcing a sliver of levity into the moment. “Well, if I can’t, then you can’t either. Fair is fair.”
His gaze didn’t waver. He held me there patiently, like the answer had already been decided long before I’d asked the question.
“There is no one else,” he admitted with quiet confidence.
Then, with obscene gentleness that made my chest ache, he lifted the strand of hair he’d tucked earlier and pressed a kiss to it before letting it fall back against my cheek.
“No one except you.”
I scoffed because believing him outright felt stupid, like handing over too much of myself without a safety net.
“Lies,” I muttered, distrust bleeding through even as my heart tried to argue back.
Then he was back to his usual self, placing his hand on my head and patting it gently.
“I hardly have cause to lie to you.”
His distracting hand made me forget I was supposed to keep my walls up.
“You know you’re gonna have to prove that,” I said, lifting my chin and clinging to whatever dignity I had left. “Words aren’t gonna cut it.”
“In time, Ira,” he promised, his voice rich enough to make my knees misbehave.