Chapter 13 #2
He undressed me slowly. There was no rush. No frantic tearing of clothes like in the penthouse. This was deliberate.
He pulled my sweater over my head. He unbuttoned my jeans. He kissed every inch of skin he revealed. A kiss on my shoulder. A kiss on my hip bone. A kiss on the scar on my knee from a dance injury.
When I was naked, shivering slightly in the cool air, he stripped off his own clothes.
He looked like a god in the firelight. The shadows accentuated the definition of his muscles, the ink on his skin moving as he moved.
He laid me down on the bed. He covered us with the heavy duvet, creating a warm, secret world just for us.
"You’re cold," he murmured, pulling me against his heat.
"Warm me up," I whispered.
He kissed me. It was soft, tasting of tea and longing. He moved his body over mine, his weight a comfort I hadn't known I needed until I met him.
"Angela," he whispered against my mouth. "I need you to know something."
"What?"
"I’ve never brought anyone here," he said. "Not Jax. Not my dad. Just you."
My heart stuttered. "Why?"
"Because this is the only place where I don't have to be the Captain," he said. "And you’re the only person who doesn't ask me to be."
He kissed my throat, his hands moving down to cup my breasts.
"I love you," the words slipped out.
I hadn't planned to say them. They just existed.
Elijah froze. He went perfectly still above me.
Panic flared in my chest. Too soon. Too much. You broke the rules.
"I’m sorry," I started to say. "I shouldn't have—"
"Don't apologize," he rasped.
He lifted his head. His eyes were shining in the dim light. He looked terrified. And he looked relieved.
"I’ve been trying not to say it for a week," he admitted. "Because I thought it would scare you away. I thought the contract—"
"Burn the contract," I said.
"It’s already ash," he whispered.
He kissed me then, and it wasn't just a kiss. It was a vow.
"I love you, Angela," he murmured against my lips. "I love your fight. I love your chaos. I love you."
He entered me then, slowly, syncing his breath with mine.
The sex that followed wasn't kinky. It wasn't about power or control. It was about fusion. It was slow, deep, and overwhelmingly emotional. We moved together in the silence of the snowbound cabin, trying to erase the memories of police lights and overdose funerals with the friction of our skin.
Every touch said: I am here. I am not leaving.
Every kiss said: You are safe.
When we finally finished, clinging to each other as the waves subsided, I didn't feel empty. I didn't feel tainted.
I felt whole.
The morning sun off the snow was blinding.
I woke up squinting, shielding my eyes. The cabin was filled with brilliant white light.
Elijah was already awake. He was lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, watching me sleep.
"Creep," I murmured, smiling.
"Voyeur," he corrected. "There’s a difference."
He leaned down and kissed my nose. "Coffee is ready downstairs."
"You’re perfect," I groaned, stretching. "It’s annoying."
"I’m far from perfect," he said, his face sobering slightly. "But I’m working on it."
We lay there for a few minutes, soaking in the warmth of the bed and the view of the snow-covered trees. It felt like a fantasy. A bubble where the real world couldn't touch us.
"Elijah?"
"Hmm?"
"What happens next year?" I asked. The question had been gnawing at me.
He went still. "Next year?"
"After the draft," I said. "If you go to Chicago. Or Boston. Or wherever."
He traced patterns on my arm with his finger. "I go where the team tells me to go. That’s the job."
"I know."
"But," he added, looking me in the eye. "Chicago has a great ballet company. The Joffrey."
My heart skipped a beat. "It does."
"And Boston has the Boston Ballet. And New York has ABT."
He paused, letting the implication hang in the air.
"I’m not leaving you behind, Angela," he said firmly. "Wherever I go... I want you to come. Not as a follower. As a partner. You audition. I play. We figure it out."
"You want me to move with you?" I asked, breathless. "That’s... that’s huge, Elijah."
"Is it?" He shrugged, as if suggesting we get tacos. "We already live together. We already handle each other’s trauma. Geography is just logistics."
"Logistics," I laughed, tears pricking my eyes. "You and your logistics."
"It’s a solid plan."
"It is," I agreed. "A very solid plan."
"So?"
"So... yes," I whispered. "I’ll go. Wherever."
He smiled—a wide, boyish smile that transformed his face.
"Good. Now, get up. I’m making pancakes. And then we’re going to build a snowman. I need to test the mobility in my hand."
"A snowman?"
"A snow man," he emphasized. "A warrior of ice."
I laughed, throwing the covers off.
We spent the morning playing in the snow like children. We threw snowballs. We built a lopsided snowman. We forgot about the draft. We forgot about the scandal. We forgot about my dad.
We were just Elijah and Angela. Two people in love, planning a future that felt inevitable.
But as I watched Elijah laughing, the sun glinting off the engagement-style ring of snow I had jokingly put on his finger, a shadow passed over my heart.
It felt too good. Too perfect.
And in a story written by the Vance family legacy, perfection was usually the calm before the catastrophe.
I pushed the thought away. I chose to believe in the bubble.
But bubbles, by definition, are waiting to burst.