Chapter 14 #2
I press my lips together, wanting to tell him to fuck himself again, but I'm confident he'll turn that into an innuendo.
After breakfast, he helps me outside. Not because I need help, but because he seems unable to stop himself from touching me.
I don’t have to like him to enjoy the feel of his hand on my lower back, his fingers wrapped around my elbow. Each point of contact burns, as if he's straight from hell, branding me.
The porch overlooks the dense forest. Trees everywhere. No neighbors, no visible roads. We could be the last two people on earth and never know it.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” He settles into a rocking chair nearby—close enough to grab me if I run, not that I could, but far enough to give me the illusion of space .
“It's very isolated. Does that make it beautiful?”
He pulls a piece of wood from a basket sitting next to him, reaches into his pocket, and flips open a blade. “No one here to judge. No one to pretend for.”
And he starts whittling. I watch, fascinated, as the wood curls around the blade and falls to his lap. It's meditative. I wonder what he's carving.
“Is that what you think I'm doing? Pretending?”
“Aren't you?” He turns the wood over and smooths it with the back of the knife. “Playing the dutiful fiancée for a man you don't love. Smiling through dinners with a mother who manipulates you. Pretending to be happy when I can see the sadness in your eyes from across the fucking street.”
Why does the accuracy of it all make my breath hitch? How does he see so clearly what I haven't even admitted to myself?
Goddamn him.
“You don't know me,” I protest, but it sounds weak.
“I know you better than anyone.” There's no arrogance in it, just certainty. “I know you cry during sad films but pretend you don't. I know you wear your nonna’s ring on a chain around your neck because it doesn't fit your finger anymore. Every time you touch it, you look like you' re praying.”
My hand goes to my throat, finding the chain, the warm metal of Nonna's ring. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“I know you're unhappy,” he says, softer now. “You have been for a while. And you're too kind, too good to admit it. Because admitting it would mean letting people down.”
“ Stop .”
“Why?”
“Because it's none of your business.”
I stand up too fast and forget about my ankle.
Pain shoots through it, and I stumble. He catches me before I fall, pulling me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm.
For a terrible moment, I want to stay there.
I want to turn my face into his neck and breathe him in.
Burrow into him. Feel his strength and comfort around me.
“Easy, love.” His hand is in my hair, and he plants a gentle kiss on my forehead. Something in me dissolves.
“I've got you.”
“I don't want you to have me.”
But I'm not pulling away. Why not?
“Liar.”
His hand slides up my spine, and I shiver—not from cold or fear .
“This isn't real,” I whisper. “You're just fucking around with my head or whatever.”
“Tell yourself that if it helps you sleep at night, lass.” His lips brush my temple, barely a touch. “We both know you felt something. We both know exactly how you feel. We both know that you've never thought about Marcus fucking Crowning the way you think about me.”
Oh my god. So not only has he spied on me, but now he's found a way to read my mind too?
Except… to his fucking credit, it’s true. Of course there's an electric current, as if my body knows him even if my mind doesn't.
I know without needing any details that Ashland will do things to me that Marcus wouldn't dream of.
But is that… right? Good?
“I need you to let me go,” I protest, but my protests sound weak even to my own ears.
“Another lie.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and the longing in his eyes is so raw it hurts to see.
“You're fucking delusional.”
“Am I?” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Then why is your pulse racing? Why are you leaning into my touch instead of pulling away? Why are you looking at me every time I look up?”
I don't respond. Maybe I'm broken. Maybe I'm tired of pretending. Because for the first time in my life, I feel like someone actually sees me and wants me anyway. And it scares the goddamn shite out of me.
“Let me go,” I whisper, but there's no conviction left.
“No.” He releases me anyway, then steps back. The loss of warmth makes me ache. “I'll give you space for now though.”
He doesn't say anything else.
He turns to the door, and panic flares in my chest.
“Where are you going?”
“Inside.” His eyes flick to my leg. “You wanted fresh air without me hovering. Don't overdo it, lass. You need to rest that ankle.”
“I didn't mean—I don't—” I stop myself. “Just don't. Don't leave.”
Something shifts in his expression. How can he look soft and hard all at once?
“I'm not leaving you, Bianca. Not ever.” He says it like a vow, and there's a glimpse of something like victory in his eyes. “I'll be inside if you need me.”
He disappears into the cabin. I'm alone on the porch with the forest and my spiraling thoughts.
This is wrong , I tell myself. He kidnapped you. He's obsessed with you. This isn't romance. It's a crime.
But my traitorous heart doesn't seem to care about the difference anymore.
I stay outside until the sun shifts, until my skin prickles with goose bumps and my ankle throbs dully. When I finally go back inside, I find Ashland in the living room, reading.
It’s not just any book, of course. Le Morte d'Arthur. The one I've read so many times that the spine is cracked and the pages are soft.
“You read Arthurian legend?” I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
He looks up, and there's something almost shy in his expression. He shrugs. “Started to. I figured if you love it so much, there's gotta be something to this goddamn book.”
I bite back a smile. “What do you think?” I ask as I hobble over to the couch and sit, elevating my foot. I try to hide my wince, but he notices.
“I think Arthur's a goddamn fool for trusting Lancelot around his fucking wife.” He closes the book, keeping his place with one scarred finger. “But I guess I understand why he did. Sometimes, when you love someone, you can't see what's right in front of you.”
“Guinevere loved them both,” I say quietly, settling onto the other end of the couch. “That was the tragedy. She was torn between duty and desire.”
Why has it never hit me so hard as it does right now?
His eyes darken. “Which one won? ”
“Neither,” I whisper. “Everyone lost in the end.”
“Cheerful stuff,” he quips, but there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Maybe it's not about happy endings,” I say. I'm glad we have some kind of excuse to talk like this. I can talk about books. I can talk about Guinevere. I can talk about Arthur and Lancelot. But I can't talk about… me. Maybe that’s partly why I love books so much.
“It's about honor and sacrifice and impossible choices,” I finish. I tuck my feet under me and wince.
“Don't do that,” he says immediately. “Put it out in front of you.”
I nod, feeling silly and foolish. I didn't mean to. It was just instinct—I tuck my feet under me when I'm having a difficult conversation.
“Maybe these are stories about people trying to be good in a world that won't let them.”
He smirks. “Well,” he mutters. “You didn't name your cat Arthur, did you?”
I feel heat creep up my neck and shrug. “Lancelot's a better name.”
He chuckles and sets the book aside. “Give me your ankle.”
“It's fine.”
His voice is stern. “Ankle, Bianca.” My heart thumps.
I give him my leg, and he shifts closer, cradling it in his large, rough hands. This time, his touch is gentle, almost clinical. But still, heat spreads from every point of contact.
“Still tender,” he murmurs, his thumb pressing carefully against the bruised skin. “You should take better care. No standing on it. No tucking it under you. Keep it elevated.” He looks up at me through those gunmetal-gray eyes. “You did a good number on yourself.”
I huff out a breath.
“I suppose this is good,” he says, gently placing it on the ottoman. “At least you'll have a reason not to run for a little while. Maybe in the next couple of days, you'll see I'm not the monster you think I am.”
And I start to wonder… yeah. Yeah, this could work to my advantage.
I should probably put some distance between us before this— whatever this is—goes too far. But I can't seem to move. Can't seem to do anything but stare at this brutal, damaged man who looks at me like I'm the only light in his darkness.
His thumb traces smooth circles on my skin, just above my ankle.
“You scare me,” I whisper.
He drops my leg like I've burned him. “Not really, do I? ”
“You do. Of course you do.” But it's terrifying because maybe he doesn't. Not in the way I should be scared. Not in a way that makes me want to run.
His eyes darken, and his hand slides up my leg to my thigh. “Why, lass? Tell me.”
I’m confused, angry, desperate, and hopelessly aroused.
But I don't say that out loud.
“I don't know.”
“Liar. You're a little liar.” He pulls me closer until I'm practically in his lap. “I should spank you again for lying to me.”
He holds my gaze, and I know he watches as my eyes go half lidded and heated.
“You know exactly what you are, who you are. You're just afraid to admit it, aren't you?”
“What's that? What the hell are you talking about?”
“ Mine .” His voice is harsh, possessive. He says it like it's inevitable. Like gravity. “You've always been mine, Bianca.”
The logical part of me wants to tell him that you can't own a person. That this is wrong, and I hate him. But his hand cups my face, and his thumb brushes my lip. All I can think is Yes.
“Ashland,” I whisper.
“Say my name again.” It's not a request. It's a plea .
“ Ashland .” I watch as something in his eyes breaks open.
He pulls me against him, and I go willingly, my hands fisting in his shirt.
“Tell me you don't want this,” he whispers against my mouth.
I can't. Because god help me, I do.
“I hate you,” I say instead.
“I know.” His forehead rests against mine. “Hate me all you want, lass, as long as you stay.”
“You're a monster.”
“I know.”
“I have to go back.”
“No.”
“I can't—” I stop myself before I say it out loud. I can't fall for him. I can't be here. I can't say yes to this life.
He knows that.
“This is wrong,” I tell him.
“Why?” His head tilts to the side. “Because I took you? Because I've been watching you? Why do you have to play by the rules when the world doesn't?”
“Because I'm engaged to another man.” My voice wobbles.
“A man who'd make you miserable,” he says gently. “You're saying yes to a life where you'd pretend to be happy. Marrying a fucking monster who's going to kill you.”
“You don't know that.”
“Who's the liar now?”
“I'm not lying.”
Something dark crosses his face. “You're just not ready to hear it yet.”
He slowly moves away. The loss of his touch makes me want to sob.
As soon as I can walk again. As soon as I can bear full weight on this ankle. When he's preoccupied, and I find a way—I'm going back to Marcus. Back to my normal life. Back to being a good girl who makes good choices.
Because that is who I am.
I cannot say yes to him. I can't fall in love with my captor. A monster. A goddamn mobster.
I can't.
Even if a little part of me already knows it's too late.