by W. Winters
“Sleep with me,” she murmurs, her voice tactile on my skin. “Zander. Stay.”
My name. Her lips. That voice.
Fuck.
It takes more strength than I would have thought to untwist her arms from my neck. “It’s time for you to sleep.” I use my professional voice now, firm but not cold. Ella won’t remember that I’ve also used a touch of my Dominant side. She shivers beneath me.
Maybe she will remember.
She turns over and slips one wrist under her pillow. I feel like a monster standing over her like this. Wanting her like this. Wanting, with every last bit of my soul, to crawl into bed next to her and sleep and sleep and sleep.
Then wake to do other things.
It’s torture to stay and wait for her breathing to even out.
Ella rolls over again, her eyes catching the faint light. “Please?” The word is a breath on her lips that must contain witchery. It’s potent enough to cast spells.
I put a hand out and stroke her hair. This is allowed. This is a professional touch between a client and a member of The Firm. This is to provide her with the emotional support she’s desperate for. Calmly I give her the command, “Sleep.”
“Sleepless dreams,” she murmurs and closes her eyes.
Dreamless sleep. That’s what she means. I have dreamless nights now, thanks to the little blue pills, but I know what happens when I go off them. I know what I’ll see when I close my eyes for the night. Memories rush in and try to fill the room. I push them away one by one. We’re not doing this tonight. I am on the clock.
A few minutes of soft breathing, and Ella rolls over onto her back.
It takes everything I have, every ounce of self-control, to do what I have to do next.
I flip up her nightgown. Not so far that it uncovers the soft flesh of her belly—just far enough to access the belt to the robe. I can’t leave her to sleep tangled in the silk garment. I’ve watched her in bed before. I know exactly how she sleeps, although stripping her down entirely is out of the question.
Touching her as little as possible, I maneuver the robe from her shoulders, sliding it down without disturbing her. Ella is so warm. So soft. Everything I want to do to her strikes me as I focus on simply removing the robe. My hands ache with the urge to touch her and feel exactly how soft she is. I want to skim my hands up under her nightgown to her tits. I want to drag a fingertip around each nipple until it pebbles for me.
I want to put my hand around her throat. Not to constrict her breathing, just enough for her to feel it. No. I only want to hold her in my grip. It would be good for her. Maybe that’s the assessment of a broken man who is searching for excuses, but I think it would. Here in the dark, in her bedroom, I think it would be good for her. It would give her a sense of safety. If she can’t be in control, then I’ll be in control for her.
I bow my head instead of shaking it and ease the robe over her hips, down her thighs, all the way to her ankles.
And then I pull it off.
I watch her a moment longer, ignoring every sordid thought I have, and then I leave, closing the door behind me. I leave her in her bedroom, with all its pristine shelves and empty surfaces. There’s practically nothing in there. Sparse as a hotel room. Ella is the room’s most interesting feature.
My heart beats hard with new adrenaline. My shift isn’t over, and my to-do list isn’t finished. In the rec room I sit down on the couch and slide my hand under the pillow. The little bottle of alcohol is half-empty. This can’t have been the only one, can it? She didn’t smuggle in a single-serving shot.
There were probably more.
If I want to find out, I’m going to have to ask Damon. We work two days on, two days off. Silas and Dane take the days in between. Damon works the day shift on our days and there’s no doubt in my mind that she drank at least half this bottle today while he was here.
For a split second, I wonder if I should inform him at all. Partly to protect her from his future precautions, but also because I’d much rather punish her myself. Without prying eyes and paperwork.
The glass bottle stares back at me.
Do I throw this thing out or leave it where it is?
I think of Ella’s pale face. The way she crawled toward me. The hundred other small things she did that beg for protection. That beg for a second chance. I’m not going to fuck this up for her. A powerful urge makes me stand up from the couch. I need to protect her.
I picture her here, facing off with Cade as he questions her about the bottle and how she got it and if she has more alcohol. He’d insist on a session with her and the Rockford Center professionals. Her cheeks would flush, and her eyes would dart to mine, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I wouldn’t be able to deny her an escape, even if this is what I’m being paid to do.
Fuck. Fuck.
Taking long, deliberate strides, I go into the kitchen and throw it out. Bury it deep in the trash can. We’ve cleared the house, so no one is checking the garbage. And no one will check this time. The deceit burrows into my chest and throbs there like a kind of infection, but what the hell else am I supposed to do?
My options are to call for backup, document this transgression, or take care of it myself.
I’m choosing door number three.
Four-count breaths. Four of them. If the situation worsens, I will follow protocol. But tonight I’m going to allow her this one thing. This one last barrier between Ella and the world we’ve created for her. I’ll gift her this secret.
Which means …
Back in the rec room, I open my laptop. It hums to life, the keys cool under my fingers. It’s been off for most of my shift, but it boots up immediately like it’s been waiting for me. In a way, it has.
I go into the program that manages the security cameras. It takes a surprisingly small number of clicks to erase the two hours of footage. That footage includes our conversation, me finding the bottle for the first time, and me carrying Ella upstairs in my arms.
Guilt tightens my throat. I don’t know what to feel more guilty about—doing my job in an unorthodox way, or the things I’m feeling for the woman sleeping upstairs. It’s a storm of guilt. It’s an old wound ripped open, over and over again.
When the files are gone, I check the feeds.
Ella sleeps peacefully in her room.
There’s no other movement in the house. Damon won’t be here for several hours.
Which gives me plenty of time for more research. No matter what I said to Damon, I won’t be reading that file. Especially not now when I promised her I wouldn’t. The drinking … however, is something I had already noticed from the videos the other night. There might be evidence of a substance abuse problem. It wouldn’t be shocking. She wouldn’t be the first person in the world to self-medicate.
The initial search turns up nothing. Not even a hint. Nothing indicating the existence of any sealed files.
Searching takes up most of the space in my mind. I don’t take my mind off of Ella completely—that would be reckless, and a dereliction of duty. But I do allow myself a calm focus on the search. I ignore my aching cock and my pounding heart and keep typing different phrases and terms, all of them paired with Ella’s name.
When nothing comes, I research my options with her. The therapy I once had and the steps I took back then compared to what’s available to me now.
All the while, she sleeps. If she dreams, I hope it’s of me.
“Morning.”
I curse under my breath but manage not to reach for the laptop. “Make a little noise coming in, would you?” I look up into Damon’s face, intending to make this a joke.
His usual smile is gone. His expression is dead serious, and his dark eyes travel over me on the couch and my laptop sitting in front of me. “Everything go all right last night?”
“Yes.” Now I do reach for the computer and close the top with as much casual indifference as I can muster. “Ella’s still sleeping. She slept most of the night after we had
a brief conversation. I don’t have any other notes.”
“You sure it went all right?” Damon’s brow furrows a little. He doesn’t hide the suspicion in his gaze.
For a moment, I think of telling him. I could open my mouth and do it right now. I could say I was supposed to be giving her emotional support, and I didn’t cross any lines. Except in my own goddamn head.
Damon, of all people, would understand. Hell, he’s even kept secrets for me in the past. But telling anyone is a risk I’m not willing to take.
“I’m sure,” I tell him. “It was an uneventful night.”
Ella
Any and all crucial information pertaining to the state of the client must be provided without hesitation to all partners of The Firm by the client or custodial guardian. It is critical that any source of threat or trigger is identified so as to establish a safe space for the client.
It feels as if I’ve slept more last night than I have in a year. And I didn’t take a pretty little blue pill to ensure those hours of sleep. It’s the afternoon by the time I finally wake. Although I do so with a migraine that pounds at my temples. It happens sometimes, after a hard night of crying. Yet another reason I despise tears.
Shuffling to the bathroom, I take my time taking two Advil, washing my face, brushing my teeth, combing my hair. All the while last night plays back in my mind as if it were a dream.
It’s not until I step out of the bathroom and find my robe folded in half that I register not remembering coming to bed. The image of Zander, laying me down in bed, ignites far too much heat for what it was.
The racing of my heart is also unjustified, since I know it will be Damon downstairs waiting for me, not the man I dreamed about last night.
“What are these?” My brow pinches as my black ballerina house slippers tap on the porcelain floor. Three notebooks lay at my spot at the kitchen island. Damon is always on the left side with me at the right when I start my day. We’ve developed a sort of routine. And at my spot, piled on top of one another, are three thick binders and a cup filled with colored pens and highlighters. Inhaling a steadying breath, I peer across the island and dare him to tell me he expects me to start coloring my doodles.
Damon’s attire is business casual, which is at complete odds with the silk camisole and matching tap pants I slipped on. The only commonality is that we’re both wearing black. It’s a suitable color as I mourn the state of my headache.
It would be almost comical to compare the two of us. This man exudes strength. I think he could make the cheapest of clothes look expensive. There’s even a hint of danger in his deep brown eyes, and a charming smile. The cadence of his voice is far too soothing for a man who could do so much damage.
I’m certain he’s broken more than a few hearts in his lifetime. My gaze shifts down to his fingers currently wrapped around the handle of a coffee mug, and I note the distinct lack of a wedding ring. He has most certainly left a trail of broken hearts in his wake over the past decade.
“We don’t want to rush anything,” Damon starts, “but I thought you might like one of these better.”
He gestures to the stack of journals and continues with his normal daytime push for me to consider jotting down any thoughts or feelings that I’d rather not share out loud. Which would be any thoughts or feelings at all. So far, I’ve only managed to sketch a bit and even that took its toll a time or two.
The first is a deep red and I’m quick to toss it to the side. Damon jokes, which he never does, teasing “next,” and forcing a small smile to my lips.
The second has tiny boxes rather than lines in the interior. It reminds me of graphing paper and I’m not a fan of it at all.
The last one is soft leather and my fingertips can’t help trailing down the rose gold binding. The leather itself is a pale white, although the pages inside are thick and heavy, and have a tinge of burgundyish, pale pink to them. It’s incredibly feminine and the very idea that this man bought it personally … well again I find myself smiling this afternoon with a bit of humor.
“We have a winner?” he asks and I nod, giving in to the acceptance of a new journal but not promising to write anything just yet.
“Can I make you anything to eat?”
Answering him with a “no, thank you,” the sputtering at the coffee machine hits me just then. As does the scent of, I think, waffles. From the corner of the island, maple syrup is visible as well as the butter dish.
“Are you finally taking my suggestion to eat here?”
Damon busies himself with his cup of coffee and glances over his shoulder, then says, “You could say that.” I’m not sure why, but that makes me smile too.
Getting myself comfortable, I shift up onto the stool. My slippers fall off one at a time, thudding onto the floor. My bare toes rest against the metal bar of the stool. With my elbow on the island and my chin resting in my hand, I wonder more about this man and his relationship with Zander.
“I really like this one,” I comment, tapping the soft leather.
“Good.” Damon’s gaze moves to the journal in question. “If I make you a cup of tea, will you write something today?”
A small laugh bubbles at my lips, and even through my headache that’s beginning to wane, I feel a sense of ease. “Is that not coercion?”
Damon’s rough chuckle only reminds me that last night I heard Zander laugh, only sort of like that. It was deeper, it was smoother … it’s a sound I’d like to hear again.
It’s typical for Damon to urge me to open up first thing on the days he’s here. Maybe he knows I’m most vulnerable then, when I’m tired and still waking up. I’ve never been a morning person. He says whatever he can to start conversation, occasionally asking me mundane questions and a piece of me wants to take him up on this offer and ask him more about Zander. At the same time, that’s not the game that we’re playing. For some odd reason, it also feels like a betrayal.
As Damon builds his case for a cup of tea being a worthy exchange for a page of thoughts, anything at all, I meander to the stack of waffles and make myself a plate.
I like Damon as much as I like Silas and Dane. They are protective, they give me space when I ask for it, they don’t judge me like so many others have throughout my entire life. But I don’t dream of them at night.
Flutters rise when I remember last night, and how I rested my head in Zander’s lap. Shivers threaten at the memory of his hand slipping down my hip.
“What do you say?” Damon questions with a raised brow, raising a glass mug with one hand, tea bag held in the other.
I take him up on his offer, if only to please him so that when I have the courage to ask about Zander, he’ll share with me. A little give, a little take.
And so I spend my brief day with Damon ridding myself of a migraine brought on by the hard sobs of last night, but playing out the events without any remorse or regret. With a heavy yet slim pen dancing between my fingers, the ink flowing across the thick pages of the new journal, I daydream of him, but write stories of my childhood. Of what I know I missed, having to grow up so young. But also what I wish I could take back.
I’m far too close to the fireplace. Its dancing blue flames mesmerize me to the point where I haven’t realized how warm I am until the deep voice speaks from behind me.
"Damon said you have a new journal."
Even the physical heat surrounding me pales in comparison to what he does to me. Every inch of me is too hot when I lay eyes on him. More than likely it’s because his gaze rests on me.
“Did you write anything down today?”
How can he ask something so uninteresting when all I can imagine is picking up where we left off last night, with our hands searching for something to hold us steady and daring to lift my lips to his?
Lying on the hard herringbone floor with a pool of fabric at my feet and two of the cushions from the sofa, one for my head and the other supporting my shoulder, I prop myself up off the floor to stare up at him.
; Zander towers over me, a dominating air surrounding him that’s only shown whispers of itself before.
“I wrote a few things.” I answer him out of respect once the weight of what he’s asked me sinks in fully. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
Zander takes a step forward, his jeans rustling and when he takes a place next to me on the floor, I notice he’s taken his shoes off. His bare feet match the untamed man he is. Sitting cross-legged, and wearing a dark gray Henley, everything feels different between us. There’s no melody to dance to any longer. No notes to hide behind. I search his hazel eyes and find the fire dancing in the reflection.
“You don’t want to talk about what you wrote? Or you don’t want to talk about anything?” he questions so casually with an innocent expression on his handsome face, one would think his inquiry didn’t carry the weight of the world with it. The soothing crackle of the fire is the only distraction between us when I scoot forward and readjust some, sitting on my ass with my feet planted on the floor and bringing my knees into my chest.
“I think I could talk today, I just have boundaries.”
“Boundaries?” Zander repeats the single word and somehow it sounds sinful on his lips. All the tension evaporates, leaving behind a magnetic pull that I can’t resist. “We could discuss boundaries.” If I’m not mistaken, at his lips is the hint of a smirk, but he holds it back. “Is that what you want to talk about today? Boundaries?”
I search his expression for the answer to my unspoken thought: What type of boundaries are you referring to?
The devilish smirk he’d been trying to hide breaks through. And I find myself wearing a matching simper.
As I rise from the floor, eager to get away from the fire and what is now nearly stifling heat, I contemplate teasing him. Calling him out for the fact that this feels very much like flirting and significantly less like counseling. Just as the words are ready to slip from my lips, Zander stands alongside me, his right hand taking mine and his left bracing my elbow to help me rise.