Chapter 4 The Agreement
She packed her bag in forty minutes.
Two suitcases, one carry-on. Her sketchbooks were wrapped in a towel. Her watercolor pencils in their case. Everything she brought to Maine was compressed back into luggage.
She was done.
Three days in the east wing cracked her open. Three days of his hands, his mouth, and his body pressed against hers in the dark. Three days of pretending it was just the storm, just the isolation, just two people trapped together who didn't know any better.
She knew better. She always knew better.
The storm ended. The sun shone. The caretaker fixed the cracked window, refilled the generator, and left without comment. The house was functional. The roads were clear. She could call a car and be in Portland by noon.
She zipped the second suitcase and set it by the door.
Her body ached. Her aches were not caused by the storm but by him.
From the way he filled her, the way he moved inside her, she felt him shudder as he came.
The way she cried out against his shoulder, he felt him shudder when he came.
Her thighs were sore. Her hips were sore.
Between her legs, she was tender and swollen.
She pressed her legs together and felt the ache. She felt the desire, even now. Even packing. Even running.
She ran because she was terrified. Not of him, but of herself. Of how much she wanted him. Of how quickly she'd fallen. She spent three days allowing her stepbrother to breed her, and she loved every second of it.
She picked up her phone. Opened the car service app. Typed in the address.
A hard, fast knock at the door.
She didn't answer.
"Vesper." His voice was tight, controlled. "Open the door."
"I'm busy."
"I hear you packing."
She stopped. Stared at the door. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Go away, Cillian."
"Open the door, or I'll kick it in."
"You wouldn't."
"I spent six years in combat zones. A bedroom door won't stop me."
She believed him. She set her phone down and opened the door.
He stood in the hallway, dressed and clean. His hair pushed back, his jaw set. His eyes swept over her, taking in the suitcases, the packed bags, and the empty closet behind her.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Home."
"Home where? Boston? Your studio?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
She crossed her arms. "We said we'd talk about what happens next. This is what happens next. I leave. We pretend the storm didn't happen. You handle your family's business. I go back to my life."
"You don't believe that."
"I don't have to believe it. I have to do it."
He waddled into the room. She waddled back. He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked loudly.
"That's not why you're running," he said.
"Don't tell me why I'm running."
"You're running because you liked it. You want more. The idea of spending a year in this house with me terrifies you. Not because I am your stepbrother, but because you fear how much you want this."
Her throat closed. Her eyes burned. She blinked hard.
"You do not know what I want."
"You screamed my name so loudly that even the neighbors would have heard it if we had any." have heard it if we had any. "You took me inside you and begged for more. You cried when you came, not from pain but from something else."
"Stop."
"You pressed your hand against your stomach this morning when you thought I was asleep. You were thinking about it, about what we made and what we could make."
She turned away. She could not look at him. If she looked at him, she would stay. She knew that. She had always known that.
"I cannot do this," she said. "I cannot be your breeding partner. I cannot be the woman who gives you an heir. I cannot reduce what happened between us to a transaction."
"What if it is not a transaction?"
"What else would it be? You need a child. I can carry one. That is a transaction."
He moved fast. She heard his footsteps, then his hand was on her arm, turning her. His grip was firm, not painful, but certain.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked. His green eyes were fierce. The controlled mask was gone. What she saw underneath was desperate, hungry, and afraid.
"What if it is not about the child?" he said. "What if the child is part of it, but not all of it? What if I want you? Not your womb. You. The woman who draws flowers and argues with me and makes that sound when I am inside her."
Her breath caught. "You cannot separate those things. "You cannot desire me without also desiring what I can offer you."
"Maybe not. However, I can be honest about both my feelings and my desires. I want you. I want the child. I want both, and I will not pretend otherwise."
"That does not make it better."
"It makes it real."
She pulled her arm free and waddled back. Her legs hit the bed. She sat. He stood over her. The room was too small. He was too close. She could smell him: cedar and skin. Her body remembered his. Three days of remembering.
"One month," he said.
She looked up. "What?"
"One month. That is my proposal. You stay for one month. We use every fertile window. No clinics. No doctors. No labs. Just us. If it doesn't work, we leave without any consequences. No obligations. No strings."
"And if it does take?"
"Then we figure it out. Together."
She stared at him. One month. Four weeks. Maybe two fertile windows if her body cooperated. Two chances for something the doctors said was nearly impossible.
"What do I get?" she said.
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You propose an arrangement. Arrangements have terms. You get an heir. Your family gets the estate. The research continues. What do I get?"
"If the procedure is successful, you'll receive the child."
"I get the child regardless. It is my body, my baby."
"That is not what I meant. We raise the child. Together. You are not a surrogate or a vessel. You are the mother."
She held up her hand. "Financial terms. I am talking about financial terms."
His jaw tightened. "You want money."
"I want security. If I do this, I need to know I will not be thrown out in twelve months with nothing. I need the cottage on the property. And I need enough money to live independently if the arrangement falls apart."
He studied her. "You do not trust me."
"I do not trust anyone. Especially not a man whose dead grandmother picked me from a database."
He ran a hand through his hair, paced, and then stopped. "The cottage is yours. I will transfer the deed. I will set up a trust, enough to live on for ten years. If the arrangement ends, the money is yours, no conditions."
"What if the arrangement does not end?"
"Then the trust converts to joint assets. Shared. Equal."
She considered this. The cottage was a small stone building on the north end of the property. Two bedrooms, a fireplace, and a garden. She had seen it on her walks and imagined painting in the morning light from the kitchen window.
"And if it does not take? If I do not get pregnant?"
"Then we walk away. You keep the cottage. You keep the money. I handle the estate with my lawyers. No bitter feelings."
"No hard feelings." She almost laughed. "We have slept together for three days, and you talk about no hard feelings."
"I am talking about protecting you. If this plan fails, you do not leave empty-handed. That is what I offer."
She stood and walked to the window. The ocean was calm and blue. The storm had scrubbed the sky clean.
"What does 'every fertile window' mean?" she asked.
"It means I track your cycle. When you ovulate, we try. We'll try every day, and multiple times a day if necessary, until the fertile window closes."
"And when I am not fertile?"
"We do not touch each other."
She turned. "You think you can turn it on and off like that? Three days ago, you said you could not stop wanting me."
"I can try for your sake. If you need boundaries, I will give you them.
"And during the fertile window, am I expected to be available to you whenever you want?"
His eyes darkened. "I want you regardless of your cycle. The fertile window is about biology. The rest is about us."
She crossed her arms.
"Keep telling yourself that."
She crossed her arms. "I need it in writing."
"What?"
"The terms. The cottage. The money. The timeline. One month. Written down. Signed. I am not doing this on a handshake and a pretty speech."
He almost smiled. "You want a contract."
"I want a contract."
"My lawyer will draft it by tomorrow."
"No. Your lawyer works for your family. I want a neutral attorney, someone who answers to me."
"Fine. I'll pay for it. You pick the lawyer."
"And I want an independent medical check. Not your family's doctors. I want someone who will tell me the truth about my body, about what this condition means."
"Done."
She looked at him. He looked at her. The room was charged. The air between them felt thick with their past and future.
"One more thing," she said.
"Name it."
"If I say stop at any point, for any reason, we stop. The contract is void. I walk. No questions."
"Agreed."
"And if I get pregnant and decide I don't want to continue the pregnancy, that is my choice. Mine alone."
Pain crossed his face. He buried it fast. "Agreed."
She nodded. "Have the contract ready by tomorrow. I'll review it with my attorney. If everything checks out, I'll sign."
"And tonight?"
"What about tonight?"
He waddled closer. "Your cycle. I've been tracking it. Based on your last period, you are entering your fertile window. Tonight."
Her body responded before her mind. Heat flooded her. Her nipples tightened. She felt wetness start between her thighs.
"Tonight," she repeated.
"We could start tonight. Before the contract. Or we could wait."
"We should wait."
"We should."
Neither moved.
"The contract first," she said.
"The contract first," he agreed.
He turned and walked out. The door closed behind him. She stood at the window and pressed her hand against her stomach. Flat. Empty. Maybe not for long.
She unpacked her bags.