Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Ashland
I make pancakes because I know they're her favorite, with fresh berries on top because I've watched her eat them that way for years.
She sits across from me at the small table, pushing the berries around with her fork. “I’m starting to sort of like that you know so much about me. It’s a little endearing.”
“Endearing’s better than creepy.”
Does she like it when I tell her the details I know?
“What else do you know about me?” she asks, taking a big gulp of tea as if to hide her nerves.
“Your favorite book is Le Morte d'Arthur . You cry every time Lancelot and Guinevere are discovered, and probably not because they were caught, but because you believe true love should triumph even when it's wrong. ”
I’m cheating a little because she may have said as much in an essay I read word for word. The professor gave her a low mark because he’s a prick, but we had a little chat, and she passed that class with flying colors.
Her throat works as she swallows.
“You bite your lip when you're thinking about something you want but don't think you should have. Like you're doing right now.”
She releases her lip immediately, and I can't help the small smile.
“You sleep on your left side with one leg out of the covers because you run hot at night. Your favorite color is actually green, not pink, like everyone assumes. I’m guessing your mom dressed you in pink when you were growing up because that was her favorite.
” I pause when I see a flare of recognition in her eyes.
“And you have a small birthmark on your right hip that's shaped like a star.”
Her face flames red. “How do you know about the birthmark?”
“The photos.”
She goes very still. “Show me.”
Fuck. I knew this was coming, but I'm still not ready.
“Bianca—”
“You said no more secrets. Show me the photos. All of them.” Her voice is steady, but her hands aren't. “I want to see exactly how deep this obsession goes.”
This is it. The moment she'll see me for the monster I am and run.
But I stand anyway, walk to my bedroom, and retrieve the lockbox that holds years of obsession.
When I return and set it on the table between us, my hands are surprisingly steady.
“Once you see this, you can't unsee it,” I warn. “And you might decide you need?—”
“I just called my kidnapper from an alleyway to come save me from my murderous fiancé. I can handle it. Show me.”
I open the box and watch her face as she sees the hundreds of photos.
Her at eighteen. Her at college. Her last month . Sleeping, reading, laughing with friends.
Every moment of her life I could capture, catalog, and keep.
Her hands shake as she sorts through them. I watch her process it—the scope of it, the depth of it.
The madness of it.
“I told you,” I say quietly. “I'm crazy.”
“It’s a bit mad, but you know how we feel about that,” she whispers .
Then she finds one near the bottom—her at nineteen, crying on her bed.
I have a little sticky note on the back. She gives me a quizzical look. “These are… annotated?”
I snort. “Leave it to you to make it sound academic.”
I can’t hide my smile. It became a weird habit of mine, recording my reaction.
Then she reads the note and goes still:
I would hurt anyone who made her cry.
Another photo. Another note:
Her laugh is music.
Another:
So fucking smart.
She looks up at me, tears in her eyes. “These notes?—”
“Are the thoughts of a stalker. I know.” I can't meet her gaze. Can't watch her look at me with disgust. “I know.”
“Ashland. These aren't the notes of someone who wants to hurt me. They're the notes of someone who's desperate to protect me. To know me. To—” Her voice cracks. “You're in love with me. ”
There's no point in denying it. “Aye.” My voice comes out raw. “Of course I am. In a way that's probably not healthy or sane. And I know I have no right to feel this way. No right to you at all.”
She stands and walks past the boxes of pictures, around to me.
I track her every movement, wary, waiting for her to bolt or protest or something. Instead, she stops in front of me.
“Tell me about the night you saved me,” she says softly. “When I was eighteen.What happened? I want to hear it from your point of view. What you remember.”
I'm quiet for a long moment, remembering. “I was finishing a fight. Bare-knuckle, underground.”
“I want to watch you sometime.” She holds up a hand—I know, I know, not right now. It isn’t safe or whatever, but I do want to watch you at some point, okay?”
I nod. “Aye.”
Something heated flickers in her eyes before she nods. “Go on.”
“I'd just won—beat the other guy bloody. Tiernan was pleased.”
“How is Tiernan?”
My heart thumps. She asked me how he was. “Better.”
She nods, pleased, and I continue, pretending her little questions don’t shred me. “We were leaving through the alley when I heard a scream.”
Her breath hitches.
“There were two of them,” I continue, and my jaw clenches at the memory. “Had you against the wall.”
“And you went on the attack. I just remember they stopped, and you—you saved me. Then you threw cab money at me and sent me on my way.”
“Aye. I was already in fight mode. Already covered in blood from the ring. I beat them and thought you were a boy.” I finally meet her eyes.
“And then I looked at you. Saw how terrified you were. Saw how young you were. Saw that you weren’t a boy, and got scared that someone would think I was hurting you or something…
” I touch my chest, where it still aches when I think about that moment.
“I thought you were going to kill me too,” she whispers.
“I know. I could see it in your eyes. But I couldn't forget you. Your face. The way you looked at me, like I was a monster but also… saved. I had to know if you were okay. So I looked up your address the next morning. Made sure you got there safe.”
“And then?”
“And then I couldn't stop. I told myself I'd just check on you once more. Make sure you were really okay. But once became twice, then became every day. I was addicted to making sure you were safe. That no one else tried to hurt you.”
“Six years,” she whispers.
“Six years of watching you become this brilliant, beautiful woman. Six years of falling more in love with you every single day. Six years of knowing I could never have you because of what I am.” I reach up and cup her face, needing to touch her.
“And then I saw you were engaged to Crowning, and I couldn't—I couldn't let you go to him.
Couldn't watch you die when I had the power to stop it.”
“So you took me.”
“So I took you. Most selfish thing I've ever done.” My thumb strokes her cheekbone. “And I'd do it again in a heartbeat.”
She leans into my touch, and I hold my breath… waiting.
“Kiss me,” she whispers.
“Bianca—”
“ Kiss me , Ashland. Please.”
I don't need to be told twice.
This time, when my hands slide into her hair, when my body presses against hers, when my tongue sweeps into her mouth, she doesn't just respond—she claims me right back .
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. Her body arches into mine. Little sounds escape her throat that make me want to throw every good intention out the window.
When we finally break apart, we're both panting.
“Teach me,” she whispers.
“Teach you what?”
“Teach me to fall in love back.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Let’s try.”
This time, I don't hold back. I let her feel the depth of what I want. Let my hands wander over her hips, her waist, the curve of her arse.
She melts into me, and Christ, having her like this, willing and wanting, is better than years of fantasies.
“Ashland.” She gasps between kisses. “I want—I didn’t realize how much I… wanted to be wanted.”
I hold her to me, my sweet girl.
“What do you want, lass? Tell me.”
“You. I want you .”
The words nearly break me. “You have me. You've always had me.”
I lift her onto the table, then step between her thighs. The photos scatter, forgotten .
“We should slow down,” I murmur against her neck, even as my hips rock against hers.
“I don't want to slow down.”
“You're not ready?—”
“Stop telling me what I'm ready for.” She pulls back and meets my eyes. “I'm here. I chose this. I chose you . Stop treating me like I'm going to break.”
“You don't understand.” I grip her hips, probably too hard. “Once I start, I won't be able to stop. I'll take everything. Mark you. Claim you. Make you so fucking mine that you'll never be able to leave. You’ll?—”
“Good,” she breathes out.
And that's when I know I've lost the battle with my control.
“Bedroom,” I growl. “Now.”