Chapter 29 Shared Space
SHARED SPACE
After dropping this bombshell, he left.
The door closed behind him with a muted click that somehow managed to sound both quiet and final.
I stood where he’d left me for a few seconds longer, holding on to his warmth that still lingered.
The room wasn’t unwelcoming, but it definitely felt different without him in it.
As if it had been shaped around his presence or something and now, all I was left with was the silence.
I was alone.
So, it was time to find out whether I was truly a prisoner or not. I forced my feet toward the door and wrapped my hand around the handle, only half surprised when it started to move beneath my grip. I opened it a small crack and saw the hallway we had walked down.
“So, not exactly a prisoner then,” I muttered to myself, wondering why Oblivion would chance leaving the door unlocked.
No, not Oblivion, but Wyr.
That was the name he had given me permission to use, but it felt far too intimate, as though I would be stepping over an invisible boundary just by whispering it.
I shook my head, trying to encourage some sense back to my brain, then forced myself to move away from the door, if only to stop my thoughts from circling back to him.
The room felt larger without him in it.
Not because anything had changed, but because his absence left space where his presence had pressed close.
Now, without his voice or the heat of him nearby, I found myself noticing details I hadn’t before.
The faint scratch along the marble hearth as though something heavy had once struck it.
The subtle wear on the velvet armchair nearest the fire, with one arm slightly smoother than the other.
One book not perfectly aligned with the others, nudged forward as though it had been returned absentmindedly.
It felt lived in.
Standing in the center of it, I could no longer decide which truth unsettled me more. That I was in this room by myself, or that I was in his room waiting for him, knowing now that he would come back to sleep in it.
In the end, curiosity got the best of me, as now that I knew it was his personal space, I wanted to explore it and peel back the layers of the man who had kidnapped me.
I approached the desk first, unable to help myself.
My fingers skimmed the edge of the wood, tracing the faint grooves and age lines, and I had the strange sense that even touching his things required caution.
As though the room itself might notice and report back to him.
There was a single fountain pen placed parallel to the edge of the desk, a leather-bound journal closed neatly near the center, and nothing else out of place.
I couldn’t help but wonder if everything in his life was always this controlled and, if so, where did I fit into it?
Was I meant to be another thing contained… or the one that finally unsettled him?
My gaze drifted across the shelves, lingering on titles I couldn’t fully make out from where I stood. Then my eyes went to the paintings lining the walls farther along the room. These were not gentle landscapes meant to soothe. They were dramatic, almost brutal in their beauty.
A fortress rising from jagged black rock, battered by storm clouds. A castle carved into the side of a mountain, its spires disappearing into mist. A coastline beneath an iron sky, waves white and violent against the cliffs. Places that felt too old to be human, too severe to be mere imagination.
The more I looked, the more I realized that even his idea of art carried teeth. Carried a darkness that, so far, he had purposely kept from me. Damn it, could I not just stop my brain from thinking about him for one second?!
I groaned at myself as I crossed toward the far wall where two doors were set into the paneling. One was narrower, plain in comparison, and I assumed it led to the bathroom. The other was wider, framed in darker wood. The kind of door that suggested the space behind it wasn’t a simple storage room.
I opened it, revealing a dressing space that made my stomach tighten.
Hanging rails ran along the walls, neat rows of clothing arranged with the same measured order as the rest of the room.
So many dark suits, crisp shirts, and heavy coats that I found myself searching for something casual.
But unless he kept it elsewhere, there wasn’t even a t-shirt or a pair of jeans in sight.
There were, however, hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of designer suits. Each one spaced evenly along the rail, their dark fabrics falling in precise lines, with matching shoes placed in disciplined order beneath. All of it immaculate without feeling staged.
The space itself carried the same understated luxury, paneled in dark wood that gleamed softly under recessed lighting.
The air was faintly scented with cedar and polished leather.
A large island stood at the center, its surface smooth and unblemished.
Drawers built seamlessly into its sides, no doubt housing cufflinks, tie bars, and whatever other details completed the uniform of a man like him.
A handful of watches rested beneath a glass inset on top, displayed not for vanity but accessibility.
Thick metal bands and dark leather straps were arranged in perfect lines.
Against one wall sat a deep-green leather bench, the kind that looked less decorative and more purposeful.
I could almost see Wyr sitting there as he put on his shoes, his thick, deft fingers working at the laces.
But what was most unusual about the space was the empty section on the opposite side to his suits.
As if he had recently had this cleared out, leaving nothing but empty hangers waiting to be filled.
The sight made me question whether this had been done for my benefit.
My chest tightened, and I forced myself to close the door again with care, the soft click sounding much louder in my ears than it should have. I turned back toward the bed and immediately wished I hadn’t.
Even from a distance, it had presence. Dark linens, a broad shape, the kind of bed that looked like it belonged to someone who took up space without apology. Just the thought of him in it, of him stretched out against those sheets, sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with temperature.
My skin prickled as I turned toward the bathroom door.
A place that would feel like relief at this point.
Somewhere less touched by the man I was obsessing about.
Where I could close the door and just breathe.
So, I opened the door and stepped inside, then, before I could talk myself out of it, I turned the lock.
The click was quiet, but it grounded me instantly, like I was taking some control back, as small as it may be.
I stepped inside and stopped dead.
“Oh, come on,” I moaned under my breath, actually tossing my hands up in the air dramatically. Because of course, it wasn’t just some small, normal, functional bathroom. No, it was a bathroom that was just as unapologetically masculine as his bedroom was.
And it was huge!
Dark slate ran along the floor and halfway up the walls, the stone textured rather than polished, with a raw roughness that matched Wyr entirely.
The upper walls were paneled in the same deep wood as the bedroom, tying the two spaces together effortlessly.
Iron wall sconces framed the mirrors, their design distinctly gothic rather than modern.
The bath dominated the far end of the room.
It was built in, carved from stone, and wide enough that someone his size could sink into it comfortably without looking out of place.
I could practically picture him there without trying.
Those broad shoulders against dark stone, water rising around muscle and control.
The image hit me uninvited and lingered far longer than it should have.
I tore my gaze away, shaking my head again, although little good it did me.
A double vanity stretched along one wall, topped in black marble veined faintly in grey.
Two heavy stone basins sat side by side, angular rather than curved, with brushed-steel fixtures that matched those on the bath.
Above them hung tall mirrors framed in dark metal, the edges curled into ornate detailing.
Opposite that stood a walk-in shower enclosed in seamless glass, large enough to rival my entire bathroom at home.
Multiple jets lined the walls at different heights, and above them a wide overhead panel sat recessed into the ceiling, subtle enough that I almost missed it, at first. Rainfall, I realized, and I found myself excited to try it out.
But first, I walked to the sink and turned the tap, letting the water run hotter than necessary.
I was about to splash that water on my face, but I found my hands braced on the porcelain instead.
I bowed my head, letting the heat gather against my skin as the steam blurred the edges of the mirror, until even my reflection softened.
I had walked into this. That fact kept repeating. I had walked into his home, into his private rooms, and into his bedchamber.
No one had dragged me.
That should have felt empowering.
It didn’t.
The steam thickened, curling around my shoulders, dampening the collar of my blouse, clinging to my skin. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine that this room was mine, that the lock mattered, that the simple click of metal against metal meant privacy.
The air shifted.
It was subtle at first, not a sound, not a draft, just the faintest change in pressure, like the pause before thunder breaks. I lifted my head slowly, eyes finding the mirror through the haze.
He stood behind me.