Adrien
Present
“I think she’s made huge progress,” the psychiatrist says, standing in the lobby. “We got to the fire and to the two of you today, and there was no collapse, no breakdown. Just a bit of natural anger.”
I knew it. It’s time.
Shifting my weight, I quickly glance at Kasien and Kiara standing beside me.
“But no more visits today. Let her process this, okay?”
The two of them nod while my attention remains fixed on the woman, my thoughts already miles ahead.
“Adrien?” The psychiatrist’s gaze locks onto mine, waiting for an answer.
“Yeah, sure, sure. No visits,” I reply with a frantic nod. “Understood.”
She gathers her notes, heads for the exit, and the front door closes behind her with a heavy thud. My focus immediately shifts to our two lovebirds, mentally begging them to go their own way already.
“We got a lead on Bryan. Eric tracked down some credit card activity in a small city not far from here,” Kas says, shaking his head. “He’s probably hiding like a fucking rat.”
“Good, good,” I mumble, folding my arms across my chest.
“He should give us his address soon,” he continues.
“Great,” I announce, clapping my hands together before letting out an exaggerated fake yawn. “Damn, I’m so tired.”
Kasien raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.
“I’m off to bed,” I declare before quickly marching toward my suite, hoping to get out of there before either of them realizes I’m completely full of shit.
The moment I’m inside my room, all I do is listen and wait.
This is so fucking ridiculous. It’s my house, my insane girlfriend is right there just a couple of doors and one floor away from me, and yet I have to sneak around like a goddamn teenager because those two lovebirds treat the psychiatrist’s orders like actual law.
The fact is, I know better. If anyone in this house holds a degree in dealing with Natalya, it’s me. I fairly earned one.
Their voices gradually fade into the distance until I hear the massive doors leading into the second wing open, followed by the thud of them shutting again.
Perfect.
Grabbing the bouquet of roses, I slip back into the hallway and take the stairs two at a time, far too eager to see her today.
No collapse and no breakdown, the psychiatrist said. Just anger.
That’s good. That’s my sign. It means she’s dealing with reality. I need to be there as soon as possible.
She held my hand yesterday as well. So it’s time for another date. It’s finally fucking time. She can see me. While awake.
By the time I reach her floor, I’m practically bounding up the last few steps like an overexcited dog before stopping in front of her door and knocking carefully.
Nothing.
I wait another second.
Did she seriously fall asleep that fast? That’s not even possible. It’s not even that late.
Another knock, still followed by silence.
Fine. Here goes nothing.
I push the door open and find her suite empty, but a cloud of steam drifts lazily out of the bathroom.
My mouth curves into a smile. Okay, I’ll wait.
I set the bouquet of roses on her bed while I shove my hands into my pockets and start pacing around the room, too wired by the fact that I’m finally here while she’s awake, while she can’t simply dismiss me as another dream the moment she opens her eyes.
Of course, my attention is stolen by the stack of drawings lying nearby. I scan a few of them, but that only leaves me wanting to see more, so I start shuffling through the pile, trying to piece together whatever’s going on inside her head.
Most are done in charcoal, apparently her newest obsession.
Art supplies are scattered across practically every corner of the room, some tossed carelessly onto the floor with their lids still off, others left unopened exactly where they landed.
I bought every painting-related thing I could find the very first day we brought her here, along with every size and type of canvas this world has to offer.
Watching it all now, visibly used and spread around in complete chaos, only makes the smile on my face grow wider.
She’s still messy, still throwing the clutter inside her head into the physical world around her, and somehow that’s the most reassuring thing I’ve seen in days.
She’s still the same. She’s still herself.
One of the drawings slips between my fingers—another burning ceiling.
“God!”
The loud squeak behind me rips me straight out of my thoughts and nearly scares the living shit out of me.
When I look up, still mildly terrified, I find her standing by the bed wearing absolutely nothing except for the tiniest towel imaginable, clutching it to herself like a lifeline.
We both freeze, staring at each other.
Besides being unnervingly beautiful, she also looks thoroughly pissed.
Which is good.
Better than scared. Better than distant. That’s just… better.
“Sorry,” I finally manage through a smile.
Tilting her head ever so slightly, she slowly looks me up and down as if I’m the last thing she expected to find in her room today. So I return the favor.
Long silver hair hangs damp from the shower, doing absolutely nothing to conceal even a fraction of her skin. Her lips are pursed into a faintly dramatic pout, tiny beads of moisture cling to her long legs, and for some reason I can’t stop noticing her ridiculously adorable feet.
My gaze drifts over her before finding its way back up, yet she still doesn’t say a word.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” I say, my voice coming out tighter than intended, because my body simply can’t function normally while she’s standing in front of me half-naked.
Her brows draw together, looking as though she’s about to throw some creative insult my way. Or maybe another glass? Or plate? Either way, I’m desperately waiting for it.
Instead, her focus lands on the roses resting on the bed.
She steps forward and leans across the sheets to pick up the bouquet, holding the towel in place with only one hand and definitely not in a way that covers everything it’s supposed to, yet she doesn’t seem bothered by it.
I gulp and hold my breath for a second while she cradles the bouquet in her arms, studying it with an expression that almost makes her look lost among the blossoms.
Right in the middle sits the single pink rose I slipped in there, hoping it might remind her of her seventeenth birthday, or remind her of us.
Instead, she abruptly marches across the room and hurls the flowers into the bin with such force I swear I feel the impact myself. The bouquet is far too large to fit, yet stubborn as ever, she keeps shoving it farther down, crushing the stems with growing determination.
“Please don’t cut yourself,” I mumble.
Her head snaps toward me so fast I take a step back.
That’s okay. I’ve got this. This is going well.
“What do you want,” she bites out.
So well.
Both hands disappear back into my pockets before she notices they’ve suddenly forgotten how to stay still.
“I came to kidnap you,” I say with all the confidence I can fake.
“I can’t leave this place,” she argues.
Fuck, she’s actually talking to me. A grin tugs at my mouth automatically.
“Yeah.” I nod. “That’s why it’s kidnapping.”
Her gaze drops to the floor as though she’s genuinely considering it before she turns on her heel and heads back toward the bathroom.
I don’t hesitate.
“Don’t you want to leave this place for a bit?” I call after her.
She comes back minutes later, wearing tight black clothes, looking like an assassin and definitely not scaring the shit out of me even more now.
She rubs her hair dry with the towel while silently burning a hole straight through me, not saying a single word.
“If you come with me,” I say, holding her attention, “I’ll answer any question you have. Anything you want.”
No answer, just more scorching gaze.
“We can piece reality back together,” I offer.
The towel lands somewhere behind her before she storms toward the door, nearly shoulder-checking me on her way out, so I hurry after her.
“Wait,” I hiss. “Quiet. I’m not exactly allowed to take you out.” My voice drops to a whisper the moment we step into the hallway.
Instinctively, I reach for her hand, but she pulls away before I even come close.
“Okay,” I mumble with a small nod. “No holding hands. Got it.”
Trying very hard not to repeat the mistake out of sheer muscle memory, I gesture toward the staircase like an overly polite gentleman and lead the way down to the garage with a smile stuck on my face, delighted purely by the fact she’s coming with me.
Without questioning anything else, she heads straight for my car, carrying herself with the effortless confidence of a black cat that has never once doubted it owns the room.
As we go, my eyes refuse to leave her.
She’s still the same. And yet she isn’t.
Confidence was always stitched into her personality, together with brattiness worn like a shield. But now she moves like someone who could tear me apart physically and mentally without breaking a sweat.
I like it.
I like it a lot.
We slide into our seats and pull out into the early evening.
I try to focus on the road, but I can feel her watching me, every movement, every blink, every shift of my hands on the steering wheel falling under her quiet scrutiny.
She’s still analyzing, trying to make sense of everything, and I do my best to keep the smirk from spreading across my face, quietly enjoying the way her gaze seems to scorch every muscle in my body.
The car is filled with the scent of her freshly washed hair and something unnervingly sweet that I probably just imagined, but it feels like we’re back six years ago, driving to some hidden spot to make out for as long as the night allows.
“You can start with the questions,” I say calmly.
Without a word, she turns toward the window and lets the silence answer for her.
The clouds grow darker, night slowly crawling its way in, and even though there’s technically a console between us, she feels close enough that my body keeps forgetting we’re not supposed to touch.