Avoiding her was never about protecting myself.
It was about surviving her. And that’s a mission I’ve failed. I can’t survive her. If she doesn’t forgive me, she’ll end me. And there’s nothing I’ll be able to do to stop it.
I shake my head at the portrait, a bitter huff leaving my chest. “What are you up to?” I murmur.
She doesn’t answer.
Of course she doesn’t. The charcoal version is just as silent as the real woman when I ask the questions that matter.
I step back, grab the cloth, and drape it over the easel again, cutting her out of sight before I do something stupid—like open a bottle and let the night swallow me whole.
Instead, I leave.
Back in the suite, the lights are low. Sienna is sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, her hair fanned over the pillow, her face bare and unguarded in a way she never allows when she’s awake. The sight hits me harder than any accusation ever could.
I pause in the doorway, watching her breathe.
Alive. Here. Mine—but only on paper.
I move into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and let the water thunder down, scalding and relentless. It doesn’t wash away the tension coiled under my skin. It only sharpens it.
When I’m done, I change out of my suit and into something soft, something that doesn’t feel like armor. I step back into the bedroom quietly, careful not to wake her.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough not to touch.
Because touching her—that would undo me completely.
I want to lie beside her. The urge is sharp, almost physical. But I stand instead, turn away, and leave the bedroom before I give in to it.
The guest room feels colder. Impersonal. Safe.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, forcing my eyes shut, forcing my mind into silence. I refuse the images that try to surface—her mouth, her breath, the way she yielded and resisted all at once.
I breathe through it. Clamp down hard.
Sleep comes slowly, unwillingly.
And even then, she follows me there.
Chapter 16 – Sienna
As soon as the door shuts behind Sebastian, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. It leaves me shaky. Exposed. I curl onto my side, knees drawn in, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free of my ribs.
There’s an ache inside me. It’s sharp, confusing, and unwelcome.
Why do I feel like this?
Why does regret sit so heavy on my chest, pressing down until it’s hard to breathe?
And why—of all things—does it sting that he chose not to sleep beside me?
I turn away from the door, facing the window instead, and punch the pillow until it’s just right. The city lights glow faintly through the glass, distant and cold. Detached. Exactly how I should feel.
But I don’t.
The last hour crowds my mind, relentless. His hand on my arm. His voice tight with fury. The way his body went rigid when he talked about me dancing.
Jealousy.
