13. CHAPTER 11 #3
“Third floor,” he said in a hushed tone, raising his chin to redirect my sight. “She’s feeling better today.”
Then I saw her. Her hand resting on the top of the railing, her waist leaning against it. She had her hair down today…again. It was darker than it looked in photos, falling down her shoulder over the white knit of her sweater.
She was talking to a woman I presumed was one of the house staff from her uniform. Her head tilted when she listened, giving the other woman more space inside the moment.
The woman said something to her that made her laugh, then she turned her head slightly and I got a better view of the side of her face.
I should have been thinking about my company’s board, the secured alliance, governance…about my win, but instead I was here watching the way her mouth moved when she spoke again, noticing how gently her hand moved on the railing.
It was an impossible intrusion.
And no, it wasn’t her beauty that hit me. It was the stillness in the way she did things.
It wasn't fragile, but soft in a way that didn't belong in this house full of shouting sons and posturing men. A gentleness that felt… intimate and personal. Something I shouldn't have been privy to, and yet was, from watching her for weeks from a distance.
Seeing it in person was different. Dangerously different.
My body reacted before my mind allowed permission.
Heat slid under my skin unwelcome, and inconvenient. One of those treacherous physiological responses I thought I’d trained out of myself years ago. My pulse hardened, then deepened slowly, like a thick thud of something awakening in the dark.
There was no longing or softness accompanying it. I only felt a compulsion, and an intrusiveness that whispered: Mine
I wanted to own that gentleness of hers, bottle it up and keep it for myself… alone.
There was nothing tender or romantic about the way I wanted to own her.
She was still deep in conversation and hadn’t noticed me. It felt cruel, but in truth I didn’t need her to.
My reaction had nothing to do with reciprocity. It came from me, from the part of me I didn’t show anyone, not even myself.
I took in a long breath and let out a more controlled one, swallowing whatever had risen in my throat.
Blaise cleared his own, watching me with the focus of a man trying to solve a puzzle.
“If you’d like to speak to her,” he said in a curious tone, “I can arrange it.”
For a moment his suggestion sat heavy between us.
I thought—just briefly—of what her voice would sound like directed at me. Saying my name instead of whatever it was she was saying now. I imagined it nearer, lower, close enough that I could feel the warmth of it against my lips.
The thought hit so hard and fast I almost missed my next breath.
If delusional had a temporary face in the dictionary for this moment, it would be mine.
Because I knew if we came face to face she would look at me with that silent, wounded pride I’d watched through video clips and dare me to be the villain she’d already written in her mind.
“No.” My voice sounded too terse. I recalibrated. “Unnecessary.”
Adjusting my composure as if I hadn’t just been caught standing still because a woman’s voice had made my body forget what it was doing.
Blaise nodded in understanding of what he thought I meant. Or maybe he understood what I meant.
I turned away, forcing my body back into motion. But the residue of her lingered, her voice threading under my skin, her presence testing the limits of my discipline in ways I hadn't authorized.
Blaise held my silence and matched my pace. He didn’t push or speak again until we reached the foyer, where King and Sonia waited by the door.
“Thank you,” Blaise said tensely. “For your… patience today.”
Patience.
I glanced at him once with an unreadable sweep of my eyes, then moved past him.
The butler retrieved our coats and we stepped outside. The cold hit so hard, restoring my emotional balance.
My driver Stephen had the car waiting as I exchanged final pleasantries with Baron and Sophia., then waved them goodbye.
I slipped my phone from my pocket and took it off Do Not Disturb. A notification appeared almost instantly, the vibration cutting through the cold.
(Group chat)
Marcus: Since Elias and Julian are back in town, how about tomorrow night?
Typical Marcus. Never asked if we were free—just always assumes the night would arrange itself around him.
A gust of wind slid down the back of my neck. I shrugged deeper into my coat.
Zane: Tell me you picked a location to match the yacht. I’m still recovering from whatever spiritual event happened on that deck.
I huffed a laugh into the cold air.
Marcus: Better. We’re going underground. I’ve leased the Saint-Martin ghost station for forty-eight hours.
Trust Marcus to look at an abandoned metro station and see a venue.
For us, the location was almost irrelevant.
Wherever Marcus locked down and sealed off from the world became our.
It didn't matter if it was a cathedral basement, an empty warehouse, a locked museum wing after hours.
The moment the doors closed behind us, it becameThe Sanctum.
The coordinates changed. The rules remained the same, rituals and all.
Marcus was always creative with these locations. Half the thrill was the main event; the rest was waiting to see which forgotten corner of Paris he'd turn into a private arena.
I adjusted my weight, making my shoes scrape lightly across the pavement.
This used to be easy. Nights like this were an escape, but today for some reason something in me had slowed, snagging on thoughts I had no interest in unpacking.
Flexing my hand finally brought my attention back to the sting in my fingertips from the cold and the tight fist buried in my coat pocket.
I looked up to find Stephen waiting patiently beside the open car door, heat from the interior spilling into the late afternoon.
“Thank you," I said, sliding into the back seat.
Warmth wrapped around me as the door shut, but it wasn't quite enough.
Zane:The abandoned metro? Marc, please tell me we’re not fucking on rusted tracks like urban raccoons.
Another laugh threatened, low and unbidden. God, these fuckers are unhinged.