23. Jamison #3
I grabbed towels from a shelf, then paused when I saw things that made her a person outside ballrooms.
I had known Sienna for three years and had never seen where she slept.
That realization shamed me more effectively than any speech Reeves could have given.
When I returned, she was still on the couch. Her gaze moved to the towels.
I placed one over her wet hair and began drying it gently.
She watched my hands as if trying to reconcile them with every memory she had of me using them badly.
“I brought gifts,” I said.
Her eyes lifted. “The flowers?”
“And other things.”
“What?”
“Several. Other things.”
“Jamison.” Her suspicion deepened, slowly, her attention drifted to the patio, where flowers crowded the glass like the garden had advanced on the cottage. “Why are you buying me things?”
I lowered the towel.
She would hear Celeste’s name and somehow turn the whole thing into evidence that she hadn’t been enough. She would apologize for a contract her family mishandled and a cruelty I allowed. She would carry my failure because carrying blame had been trained into her so well.
I would not put that on her.
“I came to work on us,” I said.
“Us?”
“Yes.”
“There’s an us?”
I sat on the edge of the coffee table across from her. Wet clothes clung to me. My cut hand had started bleeding again, leaving red marks on the towel. She noticed instantly, but I lifted my hand away before she could worry over me and derail the conversation.
“We’ve spent three years engaged and almost no time alone,” I continued. “The only time we had was in cars, and usually I was on the phone being an asshole.”
So, I was going to do the unthinkable. Willingly attend a retreat I had avoided for nearly a decade because the Bellemeres had compulsory group bonding
“So,” I swallowed every mean comment I could say about her family. “I accepted the lake cult invitation.”
Again. Actions of a saint. Three weeks of family activities with Bellemeres. God had hobbies; my suffering had to be his favorite.
“Did you hit your head?” she asked.
I blinked. “What?”
“In the water.” Her expression turned serious. “Did you hit it on a rock?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze moved to my forehead, then my eyes. “Do you feel dizzy?”
“Sienna.”
“Confused?”
She leaned forward, clutching the blanket and my jacket to her chest with one hand. The other lifted toward my face, then stopped halfway, as though she remembered she was allowed to worry but perhaps not allowed to touch.
That pause cut through me.
Three years ago, she would have put her hand on my cheek without thinking. She would have called me Jamjam, fussed over me. Made her concern sound like sunshine and I would have been cruel because I hadn’t known how to stand inside the warmth without burning it down.
I caught her wrist gently.
Her breath changed when I guided her hand to my temple.
“No head injury,” I said.
Her fingertips touched my skin. Sweet enough to make my chest hurt.
She searched my face, still unconvinced. “You’re talking strangely.”
“I nearly watched you drown.”
“I mean before that.”
“Before that, I was my usual pleasant self.”
Her brows pulled together. “You came here to work on us.”
“Yes.”
“You bought flowers. You carried me inside, said sorry more than once, wrapped me in a blanket, and now you’re telling me you accepted a Bellemere retreat to spend time with me.”
“Correct.”
“You hit your head,” She sat back slowly.
“I did not hit my fucking head.”
“You might have a concussion.” She looked toward the waterfall path through the glass doors as if trying to calculate whether a man could develop a new personality from drowning-adjacent shock. “I can call someone. A doctor. Or Reeves. Does Reeves check you for head injuries?”
“Reeves checks everyone for everything. It’s one of his more impressive hobbies.”
“Then I should call Reeves.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Reeves would enjoy this.”
She looked down at the towel in her lap, thumb rubbing at the damp edge. “You don’t have to pretend. You scared me, and I fell. I understand that might make you feel bad for a minute. It would make anyone feel bad.”
I leaned forward, forearms on my thighs. “A minute?”
“You don’t have to turn it into something else because of panic.”
“Sienna.”
“You hate me. You’ve hated me for three years. That’s the one thing between us that has been consistent.”
A savage answer rose in me.
I don’t hate you... useless after everything I had done.
“You don’t have to fix it,” she said. “There’s nothing to fix.”
“There is.”
“There isn’t.”
“There is,” I repeated.
Her fingers tightened around the blanket. “Jamison, there is no us.”
There is no us. My ribs locked around my breath.
“Yes, there is,” I said.
Her eyes softened in the saddest possible way. “No. There’s an engagement contract, and a debt between your families. That isn’t us.”
“You think I don’t know the difference?”
“I don’t think you care about the difference.”
Brutally fair.
I stood because sitting still had become impossible. My wet clothes pulled against my skin, but my blood had gone hot. Sienna’s eyes followed me as I paced once toward the fireplace, then turned back.
“I came here,” I said, forcing every word through my teeth, “because I care about the difference.”
She stared at me.
“You care,” she repeated softly.
“Yes.”
She stood suddenly, the blanket slipping to one shoulder. “You buy every flower in Harlan. You almost drown saving me and now I’m supposed to believe the last three years didn’t happen because you’ve decided to be different before dinner?”
The jacket shifted.
My eyes dropped.
I hated myself for it.
My entire body turned into a punishment.
She stood there, furious and wet and I wanted to put her back in my lap with enough force to make the whole cottage forget any other man had ever existed.
I wanted her on that couch.
Against that glass.
Bent over the armrest with my jacket shoved up around her waist and her voice breaking on my name until she learned what it sounded like when I used my mouth for apology.
I did none of it. I deserved another chapel.
Bigger this time.
“Sienna,” I said, voice darkening despite every good intention I had ever briefly possessed, “sit down.”
Her chin lifted.
“No.”
Oh.
That one went straight through me.
Because the frightened, polite girl from Harlan who had once apologized for eating the wrong plate of food was standing in front of me and telling me no.
Pride hit first.
Then heat, guilt, because I was hard enough to suffer for it. I looked at the ceiling.
God and I had never been close, but if he existed, he was laughing himself sick.
“I need you sitting because you almost drowned,” I said carefully. “Not because I think you owe me obedience.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You can be angry sitting down.”
“I don’t want to sit.”
“Then stand near the couch in case your body remembers gravity exists.”
Her mouth pressed together. A flicker of amusement betrayed her.
Then the front door opened.
I turned before the handle finished moving, one hand already near the gun at my ribs.
Except my holster was soaked. My jacket was on Sienna. My weapons had been through a waterfall, and one of the knives along my back had shifted enough to be irritating.
Reeves stepped inside carrying a black medical case, two garment bags, and the expression of a man who had entered worse rooms and judged all of them.
He looked at me.
“Sir.”
“Reeves.”
His eyes dropped to my bleeding hand. “Of course.”
Sienna pulled the jacket tighter around herself, face flushing. “Reeves.”
“Miss Bellemere.” His voice was perfectly calm, because Reeves would have addressed a queen, a corpse, and a house fire with the same respectful efficiency. “I brought dry clothes, medical supplies, and a robe. Security is establishing a wider perimeter.”
I looked at him. “The doors were unlocked.”
“Already being fixed.”
Sienna’s shoulders tightened. “You can’t change the locks on House Alder.”
Reeves glanced at me.
Wise man. He did not answer first.
I did.
“I can.”
“It’s Bellemere property.”
“I’m engaged to a Bellemere.”
“That doesn’t mean you can alter the cottage.”
“The cottage has unlocked doors, sniper-bath window.”
Reeves set the medical case on the coffee table. “I have also requested temporary exterior rails above the waterfall pool.”
Sienna turned to him. “Temporary rails?”
“Until Mr. Crow decides whether he prefers permanent rails, access restriction, or removal of the ledge.”
“Removal,” I said.
Sienna’s eyes snapped to me. “You can’t remove a ledge.”
“Watch me.”
“It’s rock.”
“Crow capital has met rock before.”
Reeves coughed once into his fist.
Suspiciously.