TWENTY-FOUR
Harrison Heights overlooks Harrison City from its elevated position, nestled into the side of crescent moon hills in the north-west. Tree-lined streets and decorative black-iron streetlamps stand sentry over the wealthiest of us. Buildings are scarcely seen, preferring to be hidden behind high walls and automatic gates. Almost all of them have little, manned gatehouses and remind me of pageantry, royalty, and bright-liveried guardsmen.
We drive past vast lots of indeterminable size before we turn off for the Trevainne compound and the place that will become my new home for the foreseeable.
When Aiden mentioned the compound before, I pictured a fortified structure; no windows, one entrance and exit, a huge fifteen-foot wall with guard towers, and parapets with barbed wire. I could not have been more wrong.
There is a wall, knee-high, that disappears into the dark on either side of a pretty gate. Behind the wall are neatly cultivated shrubs that grow at least a story and a half high. The gate opens automatically as soon as we draw close, so Dax hardly even has to slow. The driveway cuts between two rows of cypress trees and is lit by swathes of tiny lights, strung from tree to tree. At any other time, the view would be magical, romantic even, but after everything that has happened, it seems too carefree for something dubbed ‘the compound.’
The trees are darker than the night. The lights wrap around them, illuminating soft halos of colour; hints of green behind each little burst of yellow. The dots of light could be mistaken for fireflies if they weren’t so regimented. They brighten enough of the path to see where it curves up ahead and then spears off to the left as we approach the house.
It isn’t just a house. It is a fairy tale; someone else’s dream come true. But to me, it’s a bitter reminder of who I am and where I come from. I’m uneasy and Dax notices.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover, Jules. It’s not what it looks like,” he warns.
“It looks like a mansion.”
“Okay, so it is what it looks like, but it isn’t what you think.”
“And what do you think I’m thinking?” I cross my arms over my chest and wait for his response.
“That you don’t want to be here. You think you don’t belong.”
How did he guess so accurately? Am I that easy to read? “You’re right, but I don’t belong anywhere, so don’t take it personally.”
Dax chuckles and pulls the car up alongside a wide stairway that leads to a grand, carved stone entrance. “Flexibility is a strength you have, Jules. You just haven’t tested it yet.”
And this oversized building is going to teach me that or is he hinting at something else?I eye him with his face masked in shadow. He stares into my eyes and issues a challenge. I can’t tell what it is, or what the stakes are, but he presents it all the same.
I’ve already proven I’m flexible; it’s what’s kept me alive. Like my grandmother always said, ‘be like water because you never know what kind of vessel fate will pour you into.’
And yet, something tells me Dax doesn’t want my dry, truthful response. His attitude is playful, his words are loaded. Does he want to play? Tease me? Or is he trying to distract me and sweep me up; rescue me from myself and the thoughts I’ve let eat at me since leaving Carlo’s house burning in the suburbs.
And, God, I want that too.
I want to leave my guilt behind and shrug off my fear. I want to just exist in the now and make a moment worth remembering. I don’t think I’ve really had a second to just enjoy being me, and if this handsome, kind, ridiculously crazy idiot is willing to help me with that, then maybe I should just enjoy it.
Just for one precious moment.
I’ll even play by his rules. The first step is getting out of the car with my head held high and the determination to belong in his space. Is that possible? Can I fit in Dax’s life? The only way to know is to try.
“Flexibility, huh?” I mumble.
“The ability to bend and stretch, to manipulate yourself, and to succeed in any environment.” I raise a brow and my lip curls into a ‘really?’ smile. A slow grin spreads across Dax’s face. He licks his lips and continues, “Recognising an opportunity and working with it rather than against it.” He holds my gaze, distracting me fully from the big house and the pretty lights outside.
“Anything else?”
“Knowing when to bend, when to kneel, when to take what you want, and when to open yourself up to receive.”
Are we still talking about flexibility? The temperature in the car flares. Dax wets his lips again. Even breathing is exhilarating. My chest heaves the charged air in and out of my lungs, fuelling my excitement with each inhale. He allows his gaze to drift lower, drawn to the exaggerated movement of my chest. My breaths stumble as I try to regulate them. My chest flutters and I uncross my arms and drop them onto my lap to release the pressure. The movement catches Dax’s attention as he languidly moves his gaze across my chest and down to my hands pressed in prayer between my clenched thighs. He tilts his head to the side, running his top teeth over his lower lip.
I carry twin urges. I want to ask what he’s thinking and voice what I’m sure we are both feeling, but I’m also afraid of dispelling the energy we weave between us.
Dax remains glued to the path my fingers trace across my jeans. Using my thumbs, I stroke inward, along the valley where my legs press together, and run my thumbs up until they can go no further. I can’t say whether it’s my touch, or the way Dax’s eyes follow the stroke, but my body thrums. The reaction is visceral. Can Dax see it?
He sucks in a leisurely breath. I hold mine.
“Is flexibility that important to you?” I eventually whisper, if only to ease the tension that tingles through my body and raises pinpricks of anticipation across every inch of flesh.
Dax doesn’t tear his eyes from my thumbs. I press them into the juncture between my thighs. The pressure is good. Better still with his full attention on me.
“So very fucking important, Jules. You have no idea.”
We are so caught up in each other that neither of us acknowledges the front door opening or the flighty wisp of white that flies toward the car, not until it slams into Dax’s door.
Two delicate palms slap against the glass, snapping us out of our haze. Dax’s arm darts up across my chest to pin me to my seat. I clutch him to me with one hand and strangle the door handle with the other. Seconds later, he drops his arm to his side; the movement accompanied by a soft groan.
“It’s just Sylvie.”
“Who? Oh.”
“Try to remember flexibility, Jules,” Dax warns, but avoids meeting my eye. Gone is the fantasy of our bodies wrapping around each other and instead the word reminds me of another of grandmother’s sayings: Even the sharpest teeth can’t bite water. Is that the kind of flexibility Dax means? Going with the flow so that I don’t come under fire?
He opens the door just as the young woman steps back. She wraps herself around him, as soon as he is out of the car, crushing herself to his chest with octopus-arms noosing around his neck.
I watch uncomfortably. The heat within me turned cold the instant she hit the glass, but now that cold slugs through me. I’m empty. Confused.
They make me a voyeur.
Rather than continue to watch them, I climb out of the car and make a show of straightening my clothing. I’m a mess compared to the elegant creature wrapped around him. Sylvie. He speaks her name in that same way he said mine only this morning; with the air of combined indulgence and frustration. God, that seems so long ago. It feels like I’ve lived whole lifetimes between then and now.
“Sylvie,” Dax says softly, lowering her to the ground and swivelling sideways to include me in their sights. “You remember Juliet?”
The bitter hue of embarrassment creeps up my skin.
“The one who saved Tom?” Her eyes widen to take me in. She hesitates over my torn cargo pants, my stained shirt, the bruise on my face, and the mess of hair slipping its ponytail. As I expect, not just from someone as put together as her, but from everyone outside the Vale, her lip curls, and her nose scrunches in distaste. I try not to take it personally.
I fail.
It doesn’t help that Dax didn’t warn me she’d be here or explain who she is to him.
He watches me too. He doesn’t much care how she reacts to me, but he cares how I react to her and whatever he reads from my face amuses him. “The very one,” he says for Sylvie’s benefit.
She darts toward me, and I only have enough time to stiffen in preparation for her attack. She flings her arms around me and hugs me tight.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for saving Tom,” she whispers beside my ear. Her falling tears wet both our cheeks. She has me questioning which of her reactions is real.
“As I am sure you can imagine, Jules has had an exhausting and difficult day.” Dax distracts her from her vice grip and gives me the chance to breathe when she loosens her hold to listen. “I want her to stay with us until we find out what happened to Tom.” The girl nods, satisfied with Dax’s suggestion. “I’ll show her to a room and have a talk with her, and then tomorrow you can give her the tour. How does that sound?”
“Sure!” she agrees amiably, stepping back to give us both some space.
“Great.” Dax smiles encouragingly. “For now, run back up to bed. You don’t have any slippers on, and you’ll catch a cold in just your nightdress. I’ll be up when I am done with Jules and let you know how Tom’s doing.”
“You went to see him? Without me?” Damn, even her pout is beautiful.
“It was a last-minute decision. I’ll take you soon. As soon as it is safe.”
She makes a grumbling noise under her breath but paces across the drive to the door. Her bare feet slap aggressively against the ground, but she doesn’t say another word to either of us.
“This way.” Dax holds out his hand and gestures toward the door. I keep my distance, unhappy that he still hasn’t offered any explanation for who the young woman is.
I thought we were flirting in the car. I thought that his fiery glances and suggestive words meant he liked me—that he wanted me—but the gentle way he speaks to her and the way she confidently wraps herself around him suggests I’m wrong.
I should have expected it. He made a similar U-turn earlier. But then, so did I.
Is it really a huge surprise? Who am I but a loser from the Vale caught up in something I can’t handle? Honestly, what was I thinking entertaining a notion like that anyway?
Six stone steps lead to a double-door entrance. The scent of fresh flowers bombards my nose as soon as I trip over the threshold. Dax’s arm shoots out to steady me, but I’ve already caught my balance and righted myself. Sylvie vanishes up the stairs, leaving us alone again.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” I say stiffly and avoid eye contact, choosing to stare at his hand instead of risking the amusement I know I’ll find on his face. Three small scars glisten like silver threads across the back of his thumb. I hadn’t noticed those before.
“Straight up the stairs, Jules,” he instructs, hiding a chuckle behind a fake cough. The more he laughs, the tighter my muscles get. “Do you want to take my arm?” he chuckles.
“I’m clumsy, I don’t see how that’s funny.”
“It’s not your two left feet I’m laughing at, sweetheart. It’s the look on your face.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my face. I’m fine.”
“You’re pissed and adorable, but you are not fine.”
I don’t give him a response, mostly because I know he’s right. I’m the furthest thing from fine. I climb an ornate stairway that swoops around in a curve, and up to an open corridor looking down over the foyer. To the left, a large open archway leads through to a huge dining room. The landing curls around to the right and a pair of doors; one is open and the other closed. The walls are bright. A cream, taupe, and gold palette dominate both floors. It’s luxurious, if a little ostentatious, and tries too hard to fit the ideal of what a manor should look like.
It isn’t Dax. I don’t really know him that well, but this doesn’t fit his image. It’s a fa?ade of wealth.
“Which one?” I ask, nodding my head to each door.
“The one at the end,” he directs, but stops at the first door and raps his knuckles on the wood twice. It swings open but I can’t see inside. “Have you heard anything yet?”
“No, Sir. We expect we won’t hear from him until tomorrow at the earliest.”
“Understood. Let me know as soon as he makes contact. Is everything else in hand?”
“Yes, Sir. The perimeter is secure. We have additional men downstairs and on the roof. The apartments are all checked and safe. A room has been readied for your guest. Mrs. Granger has retired to her apartment and Miss Trevainne is already in her room.”
Miss Trevainne? Sylvie?
“Thank you.”
“Sir.”
The door closes as soon as Dax steps away. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small set of keys. Singling out an old-fashioned brass key with a long shaft, he inserts it into the lock plate of the next door along and turns. It swings open soundlessly.
Beyond, I discover another enormous staircase. Though not as grand as the main stair, it’s no less pretty. Directly across the way is an identical door to the one we’ve just entered. Dax walks over and checks it. Finding it unlocked, he slides the key in and secures it before gesturing for me to climb to the floor above. A dominating window looms over the stairway. Ten panes high, it offers a view of the driveway. The curving lines of lights look like a trail of starlight.
“This way,” he instructs, passing me as I hover to take in the view. I follow him, three stairs behind, and try not to notice that his perfectly formed arse is directly in my eyeline. Did he work for a backside like that? Probably not. He’s probably just blessed with a perfect body along with a perfect life, more money than he needs, and a vast manor house with rooms he’s probably never used, no matter seen.
He turns at the top of the stair and the open-plan room comes into view. The stairs to the fourth floor continue to my left and curl almost full circle, but the room we stand in is enormous. Open-plan styled living is the last thing I expect in a house like this. Thick cream rugs are strewn around the floor. I count five that I can see. To my right, a row of high gloss, black cabinets are built in a horseshoe shape. A central island counter holds a huge six-ringed hob and separate flat-griddle. A modern glass dining table sits some little ways away with a vase full of the prettiest coloured tulips. A seating area, office workspace, reading space surrounded by floor to ceiling bookshelves, and even a gorgeous piano decorates the carefully structured zones in this huge living space. Despite being in a building that reminds me of regency novels, Dax seems to live in a loft-style apartment, and I wonder why he didn’t just buy one of those instead.
“Not what I was expecting,” I offer when I realise he’s waiting for me to say something.
“I had this portion of the building renovated to accommodate it.”
But why? Why live in a place like this when you clearly prefer something else? I can’t discern anything from Dax. His answer is so direct, I can tell I’m not the first person shocked by the disparity.
“Hungry?” he asks, reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out tray after tray of food: ham, turkey, sausage, salad, dressing, slaw, and a large carton of orange juice. The food keeps coming. He reaches into a cupboard for bread and then another for glasses. By the drainer, he grabs a large cutting board and a sharp knife. Pulling out a handful of slices, he butters the bread with what I can only describe as a carving knife and begins loading the sandwiches. Each time he adds an ingredient, he holds it up for approval.
“Come and sit.” He taps the pointy end of the knife on the edge of the dark counter with a row of stools tucked underneath. I pull one out and hop up, all without removing my eyes from the expert way Dax assembles the food. He holds the slaw in one hand and the salad dressing in the other. I point to the slaw and watch as he digs the knife in and slaps a generous helping onto each sandwich.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asks.
“Um. Today? I had a burger at lunch.” I’d intended to stuff my face with takeout too, but that plan went to shit the second we hit Carlito’s.
“And before that?”
“I ate the food Aiden bought for me yesterday.”
Dax nods, remembering. “And that’s it?”
“Other than an ice-cream float, yeah. Usually, I’ll grab something at the bakery.”
“You need to take care of yourself. I have no idea how you’re still standing.”
I agree with him. “I know. It’s just been a tough few days.”
He huffs. “And yet I feel you always put yourself last when it comes to mealtimes?”
“Is this your way of saying I’m too skinny, Dax?”
“No, Jules. This is my way of saying you look malnourished.”
“I’ll not argue with that.” From the look that washes across Dax’s face, that is exactly what he expected me to do.
“Here, eat it all.” He slides a plate with a doorstopper sized sandwich across the counter. I don’t have the heart to tell him that eating all that will probably make me sick. My stomach is in knots.
Still, I take the plate. Dax lays the knife on top of his sandwich without cutting it and pours me a glass of orange juice. I take it gratefully and sip. I’m probably dehydrated, but I doubt that fact has escaped Dax’s attention. The way he scrutinises each sip from the glass suggests he suspects.
I take a tentative bite and let the flavours wash over my tongue. It’s delicious. A satisfied hum rumbles out from my closed lips and Dax smiles.
“I’ll be right back. No need to wait for me.”
I watch him walk to the stairs and leap up them two at a time. He eagerly pulls his way up, gripping the banister and heaving himself up for extra speed.
The childishness of his enthusiasm makes me smile until I realise why.
He’s running to her.