Chapter 39
Mallory Plantation—Skye
Skye waited for David to place a mobile into her hand, whatever that was.
Until then, her focus would remain on Remy. She drank him in as he worked. The specifics of the medical procedure meant nothing, but the rhythm of his movements held her captive. It was the same rhythm she’d seen tear the soul from a drum set.
She closed her eyes as the electric shock of their first meeting surfaced. Remy possessed the same dark, romantic look of Rudolph Valentino—devastatingly beautiful.
And his voice? His accent didn’t just roll. It ignited her nerve endings like a lick of raw silk. He was a cocktail of brain, brawn, voice, charm, and talent—a potent elixir—something rare and powerful.
Being near him made her feel alive—seen, steadied, held in ways she hadn’t expected.
And now she was in his world and didn’t know if she liked it. All around her, the air grew heavy in the windowless room. Did they even have trees here? Gardens? Anything green beyond concrete and glass?
Did any of it matter if she was with Remy? Yes—it mattered. But for his sake, she would give it time. She refocused on him and his comforting presence, which sparked a fire deep inside her.
And then there was Charlotte. Her beauty and presence didn’t just capture attention; they captivated.
They radiated pure charisma, making every other light in the room dim in comparison.
Her voice was a deep, well-heeled Southern purr.
A mesmerizing vibration that hooked Skye and reeled her into fathomless depths.
Skye’s anxieties died on the vine, consumed by awe and an implicit trust in this woman’s sheer, formidable power.
Braham’s silhouette mirrored the faded sepia of Union Cavalry officers she’d seen in history books. The resemblance was a jolt to her rational mind, impossible yet real, an image seared into her thoughts every time their eyes met.
David moved with the coiled grace of a living weapon. His voice, a whisky-and-gravel Scottish burr, demanded everyone’s focus. He possessed a powerful and probably unstoppable personality.
And Elliott? He didn’t walk. He strode with an air of absolute authority. Each step was a pronouncement of ownership over the very space he consumed. He moved like a kingpin demanding fierce, unquestioning fealty.
A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips, igniting a fierce warmth in her chest. This was hers and her late father’s shared legacy, the intricate art of reading people’s hidden layers and unraveling personalities.
She flicked a gaze toward Marcelle and Clay. Skye was now in their world and would rely on their guidance to navigate her new life.
A sense of inevitability settled in her bones, the quiet certainty that fate had delivered her where she belonged. The world might spin around her, but she was anchored, ready to watch the tapestry of her new life unfurl in its own measured time.
She would wait, not with the passive patience of a bystander, but vibrating with the potential energy of what was to come.