I study him, worry creeping in. But he doesn’t answer.
Instead, he kisses me—soft at first, then deeper, more frantic, like something inside him is splintering apart. His tongue partsmy lips, hungry and searching. And then, just as suddenly, he pulls away, breathless, like the kiss drained the last bit of oxygen from his lungs.
He takes my hand, leading me through to his expansive lounge, still as jaw-dropping as the first time I stepped inside. Pristine, dark wooden floors stretch out beneath my feet while floor-to-ceiling windows frame the glittering skyline like a living painting, the view so stunning it almost doesn’t seem real. A sunken leather couch sits near the glass-fronted fireplace, angled towards a massive, wall-mounted screen. On the mahogany bar, an open bottle of whiskey stands next to a half-drunk glass. The only evidence someone actually lives here.
“Sorry it was last minute,” he says, as if remembering himself. “But when I saw you today, I had to see you.”
There’s something unfamiliar in the way he says it, a distance creeping in like a gaping wound.
“So, you’re saying that if you hadn’t seen me today, you wouldn’t have invited me here?” I force humor into my tone, trying to keep the unease at bay.
“Do you want to eat something?” he asks, his gaze flicking away as he sidesteps the question.
“I am kind of hungry,” I admit. “I left the office late.”
His gaze sharpens, something unreadable crossing his face. “Why would you stay late?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because the boss is a monster,” I tease. I shriek, laughing, as he pounces, knocking me back onto the couch. His body cages me in, his legs bracketing mine, his hands pinning my wrists above my head.
“A monster, huh?” His voice drops, thick with amusement.
“A very nice monster, though,” I murmur, smiling up at him.
“Mmmm, that’s better.” His eyes soften as he stares at me for a long moment, almost like he’s trying to figure me out, see something deeper beyond my gaze. Then he buries his head inthe crook of my neck, his lips brushing my hypersensitive skin, my body craving more than he seems prepared to give.
After that, things slip back into place, the distance melting away as if it had never been there. The strange, heavy vibe vanishes—at least for now. We order pizza and watch some corny dating show, where Chase rolls his eyes at the guy’s cheesy lines while I insist he’s romantic. I try his whiskey, which is smoother than expected but still burns my throat, sending me into a coughing fit that entertains him far too much. He feeds me mint choc chip ice cream—the exact flavor I mentioned was my favorite—like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t go out of his way to get it just for me.
But the entire time, I sense his eyes on me. Even when he thinks I’m too focused on the screen to notice, there’s something different in the way he watches me. A quiet intensity, like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid to lose.
I stretch out in a yawn, surprised when I see it’s already midnight.
“Shoot, I should really go to bed,” I say. “I have a meeting with Austen at nine.” His body tenses ever so slightly before he shifts away, unwinding his limbs from mine.
“You know,” he says, quieter now, almost tentative, his eyes meeting mine with sincerity. “If there was ever anything you needed to tell me... you could.”
The way he says it makes my stomach dip. “Of course,” I say lightly, though I don’t understand why he’s suddenly so serious. “Why?”
A beat passes, then he shakes his head, pushing himself to stand. “No reason.”
He moves to pour himself another whiskey, the clink of ice against glass slicing through the quiet. When he sinks back down beside me, he looks exhausted, like the weight of something invisible is pressing down on him. The crystal tumbler catches ashard of light as he brings it to his lips and takes a long sip. Then, without looking at me, he says quietly, “People always think they’re the hero in their own story. But what if I’m the bad guy? What if guys like Elliot are the good ones, after all, and he’s the one who deserves the happy ending?”
I blink, surprised by the shift in his mood, chalking it up to the whiskey.
“What if no one is all good or all bad?” I muse. “Just different people, different endings.”
He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Even if Elliott took everything?”
“He could never take Knightwell. You’d never let that happen.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?” I frown as I take in the dark circles around his eyes. The usual fire dimmed. He cups my jaw, trailing his fingers over my cheek. “What if he took you?” His eyes feather shut as I stroke his face gently, my voice barely a whisper.
“Why would you even think that? It would never happen.”
Suddenly, he flinches—like my touch burns. When he opens his eyes, the warmth is gone. “You should go to bed, Violet. You’re tired, and it’s late.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
