16. The Proposition
The Proposition
Monika
The library at midnight was a different world.
By day, it was my refuge—the place I came to escape the weight of the mansion, the press of eyes that followed me everywhere. I would curl into one of the leather armchairs with my veterinary textbook and pretend I was somewhere else. Somewhere the air didn't taste like blood and secrets.
But at midnight, the library belonged to the shadows.
The fire had burned low, leaving only embers that glowed like dying stars. The chandelier was dark, the crystals catching the moonlight in cold, scattered prisms. The books on the walls—hundreds of them, thousands—stood like sentinels, their spines gold and crimson and the deep green of old money.
I shouldn't have been here.
Aleksander was away—business, somewhere in the city, something he hadn't explained and I hadn't asked about.
Gabriel had gone to bed hours ago, exhausted from studying, from the greenhouse, from the desperate, broken way we'd clung to each other.
The house was quiet. The servants had retreated to their quarters. I was alone.
Or I thought I was.
I heard him before I saw him. The soft creak of a floorboard. The whisper of fabric against wood. The steady, deliberate rhythm of footsteps that weren't trying to hide.
I didn't turn around.
"Nathan."
"Monika." His voice came from behind me, close—closer than I'd expected. I felt the warmth of him before I felt his touch, the heat radiating off his body like a furnace. "You're up late."
"So are you."
"I couldn't sleep."
He moved into my field of vision, circling the armchair like a predator assessing its prey.
He was dressed in black—a shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair.
His trousers were charcoal, his feet bare, and his hair was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it.
He looked dangerous. He always looked dangerous. But tonight, there was something else in his face—something that made my stomach tighten and my breath catch.
"You're wearing his robe," he said.
I looked down. The silk was pale blue—the color of the sky just before dawn—and it draped over my body like water. Aleksander had bought it for me. Left it on my bed with a note that said For you. —A.
I hadn't thrown it away.
"It's comfortable," I said.
"It's his."
"Everything in this house is his."
Nathan stopped in front of me. The armchair was between us—a barrier, thin and fragile—and he put his hands on the back of it, leaning forward, bringing his face close to mine.
"My father. My brother. They've both had you."
The words landed like stones in still water. I watched his face for anger, for disgust, for anything that might tell me what he was thinking. But his expression was unreadable—a mask of calm that I knew from experience hid something volatile.
" That's none of your business," I said.
"Everything about you is my business now.
" He straightened and walked around the armchair.
I stood, instinct pushing me to my feet, and he stepped into the space I'd vacated.
"You're a Mire. You carry our name. You live in our house.
Every breath you take, every step you make, every man you spread your legs for—it's my business. "
"You don't own me."
"Don't I?"
He backed me against the bookshelves. The wood was cold against my spine, the edges of the books pressing into my shoulders through the thin silk. He placed his hands on either side of my head, caging me in, and I felt the heat of him everywhere.
I should have been afraid.
I wasn't.
"What do you want, Nathan?" My voice was steady. Steadier than I felt. "You want to threaten me? Intimidate me? Make me cry?" I tilted my head, looking up at him through my lashes. "You're going to have to try harder than that."
His eyes darkened. His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought I'd pushed too far—that he'd strike me, or worse, that he'd walk away and leave me trembling in the dark.
But he didn't strike me. And he didn't walk away.
He laughed.
It was a low, rough sound—surprised and genuine and something else. Something that sounded like hunger.
"You're not like the others," he said.
"So I've been told."
"The others would have begged by now. Cried. Offered me anything to make me stop." He reached out and traced the collar of my robe—just a brush of his fingers against the silk, against the skin of my throat. "But you just stand there. Looking at me like I'm the one who should be afraid."
"Maybe you should be."
He smiled. It was a beautiful smile—sharp and predatory and full of teeth. "Maybe."
He stepped back. Just a step, just enough to create space between us. But his eyes never left mine.
"I want you, Monika. Not for a night. Not for a week. I want you." He said it like a fact. Like the sky was blue and the river was wet and Nathan Mire wanted the girl his father had claimed. "You. On your knees. Begging."
My heart was pounding. I could feel it in my throat, in my temples, in the places between my legs that had no business responding to a man like him.
"And if I say no?"
He tilted his head. Considered me. The firelight caught the angles of his face, the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the faint scar above his eyebrow.
"Then I'll wait." He said it softly, almost gently. "I'm patient. I've never wanted anything I couldn't have. And I want you more than I've ever wanted anything."
I should have said no.
I should have pushed past him, walked out of the library, locked myself in my room and waited for Aleksander to come home. I should have called Gabriel, asked him to sit with me, let his gentle hands and gentle words remind me that I wasn't completely lost.
But I didn't.
I stood there with my back against the bookshelves and my heart in my throat and my body humming with something that felt like want.
"You're not going to hurt me," I said. It wasn't a question.
"No."
"You're not going to make me do anything I don't want to do."
"No."
"And if I tell you to stop, you'll stop."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he dropped to his knees in front of me.
I stared down at him—this proud, dangerous man, kneeling on the library floor like a supplicant before an altar. His hands rested on his thighs. His head was bowed, just slightly, and when he looked up at me, his eyes were dark.
"I will never hurt you," he said. "Not physically. Not intentionally. But I won't lie to you either. I'm not gentle. I'm not kind. I don't know how to be those things. What I am is yours—if you want me. For one night. You give me one night. If you hate it, I'll never touch you again."
"And if I don't hate it?"
His mouth curved. "Then we'll talk."
I thought about Aleksander. About the way he'd touched me—tender, worshipful, like I was something precious. I thought about Gabriel. About the way he'd kissed me—desperate, hopeful, like I was something worth saving.
And I thought about Nathan. About the way he looked at me—like I was something to be consumed.
"Tonight," I said. "My room. Aleksander's away."
Nathan rose to his feet. He didn't touch me—didn't kiss me, didn't take my hand, didn't do any of the things I expected. He just looked at me with those dark, hungry eyes and nodded.
"Tonight," he said.
He walked out of the library without looking back. I stood against the bookshelves for a long time, my heart pounding, my body trembling, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn't catch.
I had just invited the devil into my bed.
And I wasn't sure I regretted it.
My room was dark when I entered.
The fire had gone out hours ago—I'd forgotten to stoke it before I went to the library—and the cold had seeped into the walls, into the floor, into the silk of my robe. I shivered as I crossed to the bed, my bare feet silent on the carpet, my breath fogging in the air.
I lit the candles on my nightstand. One, two, three—small flames that cast dancing shadows across the ceiling. I didn't light the fire. I wanted the cold. I wanted to feel something other than the heat that was building between my legs.
I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
The clock on the mantel ticked. The house settled around me—the creak of old wood, the whisper of the heating system, the distant sound of the wind against the windows. Somewhere in the city, Aleksander was doing business—making deals, shaking hands, ordering things I didn't want to think about.
And somewhere in this house, Nathan was coming for me.
I heard his footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that knew they had all the time in the world. I watched the gap beneath my door, waiting for the shadow of his feet, the soft glow of the hall sconces illuminating his approach.
The door opened.
He didn't knock. He didn't announce himself. He just walked in, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, his arms crossed over his chest.
He'd changed clothes. Black trousers, no shirt. His chest was bare—broad and muscled and covered in scars. Some old, some new, some still pink and healing. I wanted to trace them with my fingers. I wanted to press my mouth to the places where he'd been broken.
"You came," I said.
"You asked."
He pushed off from the door and walked toward me. Slowly. The way he did everything. The candlelight caught his face, his chest, the dark hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.
He stopped in front of me. I sat on the edge of the bed, and he stood over me, and I had to crane my neck to look at his face.
"Stand up," he said.
I stood.
He reached out and untied the belt of my robe. The silk parted, sliding off my shoulders, puddling at my feet. I was naked beneath—I hadn't bothered with anything else. I'd known he would undress me. I'd wanted him to.
His eyes traveled over my body. Slow. Intent. The way a man looks at something he's been waiting for.
"You're beautiful," he said. "You know that?"
"I've been told."