Chapter Eighteen
I get my desired desk.
I also receive a practically unobstructed view of Ward, where he’s located toward the far end of the horseshoe, in a back row.
Fuck.
Me.
As he takes his position at his new desk, his gaze meets and holds mine.
I fear this isnotgoing to end well for either of us. As the short pre-lunch agenda gets underway, I lower myself into my chair and try to focus, but I can’t.
My gaze returns time and again to Ward.
His focus appears to be on me, too.
When we adjourn for lunch, I position myself near the door that’s closest to how I get to my hideaway office and wait. Ward is waylaid by a couple of senators, but quickly disengages and sends them on before making his way over to me.
“Senator,” I whisper, well aware that C-SPAN2 might still be running video feed until the chamber is completely cleared. “Walkwith me. Please.”
It’s not a request, and he damn well knows it from the tone I’m using on him.
I turn and head out, sensing him on my heels.
I head for a stairwell instead of risking an elevator. Once we’re upstairs and on my floor, I glance around and then clamp my hand around the back of his neck.
Anyone spotting us might assume two friends.
But there were countless times I gripped him exactly like this, my fingers firmly digging into the sides of his neck, just above the shoulders.
He doesn’t try to pull away, either.
I already have my key out and let us into the hideaway office, practically shoving him ahead of me at this point.
I turn and shut the door, making sure it’s firmly locked behind me.
When I turn I find Ward on the floor, beautifully kneeling, his head bowed and shoulders shaking in that familiar way that lets me know he is close to or already crying.
Fuck.
“I’m so sorry, Master.” His pained whisper derails my rage and pain as I once again default to caretaker mode.
Wanting tofixmy boy’s wounded soul and feeling impotently angry that I…can’t.
“I’m so sorry I left you, Master.”
That’s when I actually process what he said, what he called me.
Master.
Stunned, I stand there staring at him, unsure what to say or do next until the words pour from the darkest, rawest depths of my soul. “Do you understand how scared I was something had happened to you? Then I couldn’t reach you and you left me that bullshit note. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you and was going to ask you to marry me that afternoon. What happened? Why didn’t you justtalkto me?”
He sniffles but doesn’t break his kneeling position. As if he hasn’t missed a day doing it. “Dad sent me an e-mail that morning that they weren’t going to make it, but he bought me a plane ticket to return to Atlanta. He wanted me home that evening for a dinner party.”
I don’t know if that makes me more angry or not. “He made you miss your own graduation for a fucking party?”
He shakes his head. “No. I could have gone and then made the flight.”
