Cold.
But necessary.
He protected me and Vivianne.
I check my watch. Two minutes until Vivianne is due to arrive. Will she come? Does she still feel what I feel? Or has the time apart and the pressure from her family changed things?
The soft ticking of an antique clock on the mantle counts down the seconds. I adjust my borrowed uniform and smooth back my hair. A crystal decanter catches my eye—whiskey, probably older than I am. The temptation to pour a steadying drink is strong, but I need a clear head.
One minute.
I move to the window, peering at the glittering New York skyline. Somewhere out there, Merlin is watching, waiting. My adoptive father, my mentor, the man who shaped me into who I am. Does he approve of this plan? Or does he see it as another reckless move, driven by emotion rather than logic?
The door handle turns.
I spin, my breath catching in my throat. This is it. After months apart, after all we've been through—Vivianne is here.
TWELVE
Paul: The Announcement
The door opens.
My breath catches as a sliver of light appears, widening. A figure slips through the gap, movements cautious and deliberate.
Vivianne.
She closes the door behind her, pressing her back against it. Her eyes, wide and luminous in the dim light, lock onto mine. For a heartbeat, we're frozen, drinking in the sight of each other.
Then, as if a dam has burst, we surge forward.
We collide in the center of the room, bodies crashing together. My arms encircle her waist, lifting her off her feet. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, fingers digging in to assure herself I'm real.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of her perfume—lilacs and roses—floods my senses, achingly familiar.
"Paul." My name is a prayer on her lips.
"Vivianne." I pour weeks of longing into those three syllables.
The grandeur of the gala fades into insignificance. Her ivory gown hugs her body, and I'm drawn to her with an urgency that obliterates everything else.
She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears that catch the light.
"I thought I lost you." Her voice is husky, raw.
I cup her face, thumbs brushing away the tears that trace paths down her cheeks. Her skin is soft, warm, slightly flushed—a stark contrast to the cool elegance of her gown.
"Never." The word holds the weight of a thousand promises.
Our lips collide with a fervor that steals the air from my lungs. I devour her mouth as if it's the very essence of life, my hunger matched only by the desperation of our circumstances. The kiss is raw, primal—tasting of shared suffering and the isolation of months apart.
Her mouth is eager, urgent, as if she's been starving for this very moment. I meet her desperation with my own, our lips moving together in perfect synchrony. The months of separation, the fear, the longing—they all surface in this kiss.
Our bodies press closer, hers soft and yielding against my hard frame, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. She clings to me, hands gripping my shirt, pulling me closer, as if she can't bear even the slightest distance between us.
The silken fabric clings to her like a second skin, revealing every curve, every delicate line. The knowledge that only a thin layer of material separates us sends a surge of raw desire coursing through me. I ache to explore every inch of her, to reclaim what has always been mine.
I want to tear away the ivory gown, expose the flesh beneath, and brand it with desperate kisses. But I resist, knowing the destruction of her dress would leave her exposed when she returns to the gala. The anticipation is its own torment.
