by Skye Warren
That’s when I see the bedside table.
The gleaming white castle sits there, all by itself. It definitely wasn’t there the night before. And there’s no reason for it to be separate from its set, except as a message.
I pick up the piece, fingering the smooth marble. It’s almost a surprise. For some reason I expected to find it shattered. Maybe there would be lines in the stone where it had been glued back together, not quite right. But it’s as perfect as ever.
A folded sheet of vellum remains on the nightstand. I open it, feeling oddly weightless.
My little virgin,
My estate is the safest place in the city. It’s yours.
You have beaten me thoroughly, and with more mercy than I deserve. I’ve lost the thing I care for most—your heart, your smile. Your presence. And I can’t even regret it, because the more I came to love you, the more I want you to win.
That’s when I know what strength is—not surviving. Not even fighting.
Sometimes strength is moving forward, another checkerboard, a single step.
“Stay,” I whisper.
Only there’s no one to hear me. I run out to the stairwell, shouting for him. “Gabriel! Where are you? Gabriel.”
Mrs. B comes out of the kitchen, looking flushed and disheveled. “Avery?”
“Where is he? Did he leave yet? Please tell me he didn’t—”
And then through the high arch window above the front door I see it. The black limo, pulling away from the circular drive, picking up speed down the pebbled path.
My heart lurches.
I stumble down the curving staircase and out the front door. Stones bite into the soles of my feet, but I don’t slow down. I can’t slow down. I must look wild, completely insane, wearing only a thin tank top and sleep shorts, my hair a disaster. Nothing matters except stopping that car.
How can a person on foot catch a moving vehicle?
How can one small woman shouting reach the inside of a heavily padded limo?
It’s impossible, like everything about me and Gabriel Miller, which is exactly why it works. The only way it would happen is if he looked back. The limo comes to a smooth stop, its black paint gleaming in the sun like marble.
Gabriel steps out of the back, an incredulous look on his face. “What are you doing?”
There are only a few pieces left on the board. Only the two of us in the endgame. One of us has to die so the other can win—and so Gabriel knocks over his king. It’s both a gift and a loss, a sign that something finally matters more than winning.
“Stay.”
Hope flickers across his face, doused by stoicism. “That isn’t how the game is played.”
“I’m done playing.”
“So am I.”
“I love you.” I’m out of breath, the words falling like gasps.
“What did you say?” he demands, taking a step closer.
And something matters more to me than losing. “I love you, Gabriel Miller.”
He takes another step closer, almost compulsively. And stops. “God. Don’t.”
“I really do.”
“It’s suicide. To love a man like me.”
“Then what is it to love a woman like me?” My laugh sounds maniacal even to myself. “Hearing voices. Chasing cars. I’m a little bit insane.”
“You’re a queen, little virgin.”
I throw myself into his arms. Of course he catches me. “Then you’re my king.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
My teachers are kind enough to extend the deadline for my final thesis.
When it came to choose my thesis for my Gender in Classical Greek Literature class, there were too many topics to explore. Beauty and exploitation. Shame and oppression. Sexuality and the tangled web of female agency. I had decided on motherhood, the examination and expectation of the role as caregiver. It was an homage to my mother, a person who I love without ever having known, more myth than fact—like the literature I was to examine.
When I return to my laptop a few days later I know I need to start over. There’s something else I need to examine, a subject I know intimately but that remains a mystery—virginity. The auction changed the course of my life. It ruined me. It saved me.
How could such a small strip of skin so greatly affect me?
Why does the lack of experience mark me as somehow more valuable?
I buried myself in Gabriel’s library, digging out the Greek dramas and philosophers. I located texts online with religious practices and Hippocratic medical writings. I pored over every text I could find that explored the classical views on sexual purity.
Was a woman ruined once her hymen disappeared?
Why was virginity something for a man to take, as if it was a possession?
It took me weeks to write the first version of my essay, carefully outlining and rewriting, debating the best sources and the right format for my arguments.
The new one appears as quickly as I can type the words, a manifestation of a lifetime of study, a synthesis of everything I’ve learned—a rebuttal to what Jonathan Scott said to me in that dilapidated mental hospital.
What’s wrong with teaching a child about her body?
He didn’t teach me. He violated me.
He didn’t show me anything. He took from me.
That’s the essence of how a man takes a woman’s virginity. By exerting his power. By purchasing her. By bending her to his will. These are first times in the purest sense. The first time I was used and sold and abused.
They aren’t my only first times. There’s the first time I orgasmed by myself, alone in the silence. The first time I stepped over the threshold at the Den, determined to save my father and myself. The first time I climaxed against Gabriel’s fingers in the warm tub, coming alive, feeling every nerve ending in my body as if I were born anew.
For all that we consider modern society to be enlightened and even highly sexualized, our views on innocence and sin are remarkably puritan. For the Greeks, virginity was not about a small strip of skin. It wasn’t irrevocably missing after having sex.
Virginity was closer to abstinence, to modesty. A purity of body and thought.
A sacred duty.
And that’s why I don’t object, when Gabriel continues to call me his little virgin. It’s true enough. True in the most important ways. That I belong to him and no other.
That he belongs to me, too.
Of course I add annotations and references to my paper. It wouldn’t be complete without them. Still, I’m nervous the day after I submit the paper. Most of the undergrad work is simply regurgitations of existing concepts. Have I gone too far? Flown too close to the sun?
From across the chessboard Gabriel gives me a dark look.
Only then do I realize I’ve been tapping the wooden rook against the board. “Sorry.”
“What’s the matter, little virgin?”
“I should have sent the first paper.”
He turns back to his book. “Perhaps.”
With a huff, I throw the piece at him. It bounces off his arm and falls harmlessly to the floor, rolling on the rug. “You’re supposed to say I did the right thing.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “If you already know, then why are you worried?”
“Because.”
“Because?”
“Sometimes men have antiquated views of virginity and a woman’s status, even now, and my stuffy professor might not enjoy them being challenged.”
Gabriel closes his book and sets it on the chessboard. “A smart man enjoys the challenge of a smart woman. Surely you know that.”
A small smile teases my lips. “And what if he’s not smart?”
Golden eyes regard me with solemn promise. “Then I’ll kill him for you.”
I can’t hold back my laugh. “Liar.”
“I’ll arrange for a sex scandal, thereby revoking his tenure.”
My eyes widen, because that one seems more plausible. “Don’t.”
“Can I at least have his office vandalized? We’ll cut words out of your essay to spell out The professor must die.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t use the word professor in my essay.”
He nods gravely. “Then I suppose we’ll have to accept whatever the grade is.”
“How sensible.” I stand and stretch, my muscles tight after hours spent reading. I love these evenings of quiet repose, but I love the loud recreation that follows even better.
His eyes track the sliver of skin beneath the hem of my cami. “Quite.”
“Is that what you are? Logical? Analytical?”
“For the most part,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Unless provoked.”
I pick up the king, tapping the square cross at the top with my finger, feeling the imprints and the edges. “Then I suppose it would be wrong to provoke you.”
“God,” he mutters, watching my finger trace the outline.
And I put the tip of the king to my lips. My tongue darts out to taste. Wood tastes like nothing, but all I feel is danger when his golden eyes sharpen on me.
He takes a step forward, and I drop the piece to the floor.
Another step.
I’m backed against the spiral staircase, carvings pressing into my back. When I would slide away, he shoots a hand to my collarbone, holding me there. He brings his body flush against mine, looming over. His thumb brushes over the delicate bones at my throat, the way I felt the wooden chess piece. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You provoke me just by standing there. By looking at me. By writing those glorious, filthy words about sex and women and love.”
“Love?” I ask, suddenly breathless.
He bends his head until he’s a breath away. “Yes, love. What else would a king feel for his queen? What else would a man feel for the woman who made him whole?”
I need to hear the words. “Do you love me?”
“Oh, little virgin. I love you with every cold bone in my body. I love you with every dark thought, every violent impulse. I love you enough to leave the walls I’ve carefully built, the iron bars I refined, the castle I made.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” I whisper.
“This castle is for you. I’m talking about the one inside me, the one locking up everything gentle and kind I ever might have been. And now I stand in front of you, completely defenseless.”
That was one thing Jonathan Scott got right. Repression is a powerful instinct. Much like fight-or-flight. You thought you could forget me.
I can’t forget what happened to me anymore than Gabriel can forget what he’s done. We can be stronger for remembering. For surviving. For loving.
“I won’t ever hurt you.”
“Won’t you? You could crush me. With a word. A look. If you don’t let me kiss you, right this second.”
And I do him one better, rising up on my toes, pressing my lips to his. I kiss him, forcing my mouth against him, my will against him, my love imbued in every shiver and breath. The words I love you slip out, air shared between us. Then we lose ourselves in the magic of battle, of chess, the powerful exclamation that comes from one body consuming another—being consumed in return.
I’ve spent my life trying to be more than a princess in a tower. Trying to be smarter or kinder. Trying to be better in some way that will lend me power of my own. It wasn’t isolation that made me weak, though. It wasn’t a pretty pink dress. It was thinking that being saved made me weak. Accepting help, supporting friends. Finding love. All of it made me stronger.
And I could give strength in return, the one to finally make Gabriel a king.
Epilogue
The Emerald is a historical hotel from the 1800s offering twenty luxury suites and a Michelin-star chef. It’s also the only place that isn’t a motel within driving distance to Smith College. Naturally that’s where most of the parents bunk when they visit their offspring. It’s also where Gabriel and I check in after arriving in Massachusetts. A porter escorts us to the separate penthouse elevator.
The glass doors open to reveal an expansive sitting area, larger than the average hotel room. It includes elegant seating arranged around a fireplace, a desk in the corner, and a built-in reading nook with walnut paneling. Through the door to one side I can see a high bed. On the other end, sunlight streams through French doors that lead to a private terrace.
When we’re alone, I turn to him. “You said we’d be circumspect.”
That was a condition of our trip. “I said we would be safe,” he amends. “This place was amenable to my security requirements. The fact that it’s also quite comfortable is just a bonus.”
I laugh softly, not wanting to know how much that cost him. A placard near the elevator reveals the history of this place. “The Emerald was a gift from a Spanish count to his betrothed, the daughter of a New York financier, banker, director of railroads, and real estate tycoon.”
“Do you think she liked it?” he asks innocently.
“An extravagant mansion and hundreds of acres? I’m sure she said thanks.”
I don’t want to give Gabriel any ideas. He already gives me gifts on a daily basis. The money bothers me, only because I used to subsist in that shallow world. I don’t want him to think that’s the only reason I stay. But I can’t deny the pleasure, the way his stoicism covers an intense desire to please me.
He smiles. “This was their country home, actually. They only stayed here a few weeks out of the year. Their primary home was in the city.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t know whether I’m more surprised that a place this huge could be a vacation home or that you actually know that fact. Do you always read up on the hotels you stay in?”
“No,” he says, drawing out the word. “Though I do for the hotels I’m buying.”
My breath hitches. “What?”
He joins me at the French doors, looking at the stunning vista of grass and lake. “Do you want to hear more? Apparently the landscaping was done by the same guy who created Central Park.”
“I’m serious,” I manage. “You’re buying this place?”
“Past tense. I bought this place.”
My lungs seem to have forgotten how to breathe. “Why?”
He pulls something from his coat pocket. An antique copper key with a green velvet ribbon tied to the end. “A gift for the woman I love.”
My vision blurs, and I know that I’m crying. “Oh my God.”
“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice curiously flat.
When Gabriel agreed that I would return to Smith College, it had seemed like a dream. The correspondence classes were good, but nowhere near as immersive an experience as actually attending classes. The prospect of sitting through more live-streamed lectures seemed untenable.
Then I got the grade back on my final thesis. An A, along with an invitation to be his research assistant on his gender studies book. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.
And also a chance to rejoin my friends, especially Harper.
I’m coming with you, was all Gabriel said when I asked him.
“I love it,” I whisper, ashamed at the simplicity of the words. I’m awed at what he’s done for me—both his willingness to follow me and his boundless generosity to help me go.
“There are houses,” he says, speaking a little too fast. “I have pictures you could look at. But this way you have a full-service concierge so you can focus on your studies.”
I force back the tears. “And I imagine you’ll be making security modifications?”
“Already done.”
We’re standing side by side, but it’s too far apart. I fling myself into his arms, and he catches me like he’s been waiting for it. His shoulders are too wide for me to really hold, his body too tall and broad for me to embrace, but I give it my best shot, squeezing him so he understands how much this means to me.
He makes a soft sound—not pain, not pleasure. Something like longing.
“Thank you,” I say, pressing my face
to the cool linen of his dress shirt.
“Are you sure you like it? You don’t have to—”
“Gabriel. I’m about to die; that’s how much I like it.”
“Is that good?”
I press my lips to his, showing him in a language he’ll understand. He gives me only a moment to control the caress before his mouth takes over, pressing harder, demanding entry. His tongue swipes against mine in a move both playful and hard.
When he pulls away, I’m panting.
“They needed an influx of cash,” he explains. “They were on the verge of accepting a buyout from one of the big hotel conglomerates, even though that would have stifled everything unique about this place. I purchased a majority share in your name.”
“Just like that?”
“Of course they’ll continue to manage operations. And you’ll reside in the penthouse exclusively.”
It’s going to take me some time to process the magnitude of this gift. I know that it will make my life easier during my final years here, and possibly into grad school, but that’s not why I’m really moved. Gabriel makes grand gestures like this, always watching me, always measuring. This is how he shows me what he feels inside. This is the language he uses. When he kept me at his estate, he wanted me to be comfortable. He wanted me to be safe. And now, with this, he wants me to be free.
I cup his jaw with my hand. “You’re insane,” I tell him solemnly.
“So are you,” he says, dipping to kiss my nose.
Taking a deep breath, I manage a tremulous smile. “So you know I’m going to have the best college parties, right?”
His expression hardens. “I thought you said this was an all-girl college.”
“Strictly speaking, but there are boys at the neighboring universities. Amherst and UMASS. That’s where Justin went. He was on the rowing team. Did I mention that?”
A growling sound rumbles through the air. “No frat boys.”
“They tend to show up wherever there’s beer,” I say apologetically. “It’s like a sixth sense.”
“And no alcohol.”
My eyes widen in pretend dismay. “Then however will I unwind after a long week of studying.”