8. The Explanation #2
A shiver ran down her spine, a confusing blend of both fear and desire.
If he was going to reveal his true thoughts to her, then shouldn't she do the same?
Didn't he deserve that? After everything he has done for her.
"I felt... something too, that day." She admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
His eyes seem to flare with some unnamed emotion at her words.
Hurt? Guilt? Before she finished dissecting the look, he masked it.
His hand found hers, fingers intertwining with a familiar possessiveness that was beginning to bring comfort rather than make her feel caged.
"You're not just something I wanted, Iris," he said, his voice low and edged with a fierce protectiveness.
"You're everything I ever dreamed of, and exactly that I was convinced I would never have. "
As the car slowed to a halt beneath the towering edifice of their penthouse, Iris leaned into the warmth of his touch.
She had begun to crave the chaotic whirlwind of obsessive love, fear, and survival that swirled around him like a cyclone.
He pulled on her hand, and she willingly followed.
Together, they stepped out into the night.
Silently, they walked into the lobby and headed straight for the elevators.
Iris's eyes were locked on Nash's shoulders as he marched along.
It seemed that every step closer to the elevator doors brought more and more tension into his shoulders.
A matching tension seemed to lick up her spine.
She opened her mouth to question him, but never got even the first syllable out.
His eyes cut to hers, and when he spoke, his words were low.
"Not here, upstairs. I owe you an explanation." His eyes cut to the side. Hiding his true emotions from her once more.
Once tucked away inside the elevator, he pulled her back to his front. Wrapping his arms around her in a hold that was just on this side of painful. Time seemed to slow, and by the time they walked into the penthouse, tension held Iris in its thick claws.
The air seemed thick and clung to Iris's skin like a second layer, prickling with an electric charge as she faced Nash in the dimly lit room.
Shadows cast by the single low-burning lamp that was left on in the living room.
He crossed the large space with determination and headed straight to the floor-length windows across from her.
Iris stayed standing in the middle of the room, her arms crossed over her chest.
Whatever he was about to say, she had no idea what to expect. But it terrified and excited her all the same. This was a turning point, she knew. But where they were headed she had no idea.
"You're wrong," he said abruptly, his voice low and steady but settling within her stomach like a lead weight.
"About what?" Iris asked, her brows knitting in confusion. She studied his face, searching for clues in the hard set of his jaw, the unwavering gaze of his dark eyes.
"About us. About when we first met," Nash replied, an edge of something unreadable in his tone.
Iris felt her heartbeat quicken, a flutter of unease unfurling in her stomach. "What do you mean?"
"Everyone thinks I took over the family company at twenty-three," he began, his voice resonating through the stillness. Iris nodded, aware of the remarkable changes he brought to his father's businesses once he took control. It had been unprecedented.
"Right, and—" she started to say.
Nash cut her off, his eyes never leaving hers.
"But I was there at eighteen, working behind the scenes.
I had full control by twenty. We just didn't make it public for a few years.
Worried the stocks would plummet if the public couldn't handle the idea that a 'kid' was smarter than they were. " Bitterness was rife in his tone.
She blinked, taken aback by the revelation. But then as she thought about it. It wasn't truly that surprising. The business had always seemed like an extension of Nash himself—confident, unyielding—it was not all that surprising to know he had been there longer than she first thought.
In truth, she never gave much thought at all to when he started picking up the mantle.
Many sons worked in their father's offices before they took over.
But, to think that he had control of the company for so long before anyone else knew...
To think that he had been shaping the company even before the world really knew his name...
"Your ideas..." Iris murmured, trying to reconcile this new information with the man she thought she knew. Thinking hard, she remembered the boom Nash Holdings went under in her teenage years. Was it all thanks to him?
"Since I was eighteen," he confirmed, a trace of pride laced with bitterness coloring his confession. She understood the emotions, but not why he was telling her this now.
"Okay, that's impressive. I have always been proud of your skills," she answered softly. "But I don't understand what that has to do with us," Iris admitted, a frown creasing her forehead.
"Where did you intern the summer when you were fifteen?" Nash prompted, his question hanging in the air like a challenge.
Her heart skipped. "At your father's company." The words tumbled out, tinged with a dawning realization. Could he mean...?
Nash nodded ever so slowly, his expression solemn.
"I saw you, striding across my lobby as if it was yours instead of mine.
" He shook his head, a small snort of amusement escaping him.
"You had this bright smile on your face, as if simply being alive brought you joy.
" His voice was a mixture of wonder and something darker, more pained.
"And I... I've never felt that. It drew me in. You drew me in."
Iris's breath caught in her throat. She remembered interning that summer. Getting out of the house, away from her disapproving parents, made that office her haven. She loved it there. But she never saw Warrick when she worked there.
"Life for me has always been a series of challenges," Nash continued, his words heavy with a yearning she could almost touch. "Something to be conquered, but never enjoyed."
A chill ran down Iris's spine as she absorbed his words.
"But then, I met you. And everything changed."
Nash's gaze was unrelenting, a storm of emotions swirling in the depths of his eyes as they held hers. His confession hung in the air between them like a tangible presence, heavy with implication and a dark, obsessive undercurrents.
It should have terrified her.
But it didn't.
"Every day, I saw you. I sought you out.
" He began, his voice low and rough with emotion, "I saw how you embraced life—how you savored every moment with that carefree laughter, that spark in your eyes.
" He paused, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"It was... intoxicating." The last word was more growl than speech.
Iris could barely breathe, caught in the gravity of his admission. The walls of the room seemed to close in around her, the air charged with the electricity of his confession.
"I couldn't stay away," Nash confessed, his fingers tracing the edge of the glass on the table before him.
As if needing something to anchor him to the here and now.
"I became obsessed. I memorized your schedule.
Making sure I would be walking down the same corridor as you.
Seeing you was a necessity. I timed my exits to match up with yours. "
"I never saw you..." she murmured. He scoffed, a self-deprecating grin on his lips.
"It was easy to track you on the security feed in the elevator. I would sit in the lobby, waiting to see you. And I sat there, watching you."
Iris couldn't believe what he was saying. How could she have never noticed him?
"I even moved my office," he said, a bitter chuckle escaping him, "to one overlooking the sea of cubicles where you worked. So that I could look up at any point and see you."
The raw honesty of his words sent a shiver down Iris's spine—the realization that for one summer, she had been the center of his world without even knowing it.
"Fuck, I knew it was wrong," he continued, his voice laced with self-loathing. "You were fifteen, and I was twenty, lurking in the shadows like... like a stalker." The last word came out strangled, and he looked away, the lines of his face hardening with disgust at his past self.
The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of his confession. His eyes appeared dead in his face, awaiting her scorn. Her anger. But... she didn't feel any.
Why? She wasn't sure.
The only thing she knew at that moment was her family cared little for her, if at all. Her relationship with her brother and sister might be salvageable now, but back then, they barely acknowledged her. Having anyone care about her was enough to send warmth fluttering through her.
That probably made her sick. Or at least mentally unstable. Who feels good about a stalker?
"Why did you never approach me?" She asked. His eyes swung around to bulge at her. His surprise at her lack of upset was palpable.
"Because you were fifteen. I was twenty and way too jaded for someone as good as you.
I resigned myself to that one summer with you.
" His gaze turned back to the windows. "I had heard your name floating around for years, but you exceeded all the hype.
I knew I couldn't, shouldn't, have you. But, I was already in your orbit, and I was powerless to stop myself. I thought a taste would be enough."
"What changed, then?" Iris asked, her voice barely above a whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile moment. "When I met you again at twenty, you weren't hiding then."