by Skye Warren
“To be alone.” His nod has finality. “I only need to confirm it’s done with Miller.”
I press my lips together, unable to say goodbye.
He hesitates. “Are you…?”
He wants to know if I’m okay. Whether he hurt one woman to save another. “I’m good here.”
I set out to save my mother’s house, because I thought it was her legacy. Something she passed down to me in a final motherly act. It was a myth I believed because I needed it, the allure a burning desire for love, the threat a cold realization that love wouldn’t be enough.
In the end I’m left not with a house or a diary, not with any assurance of my mother’s love. Instead I have only what’s in front of me—the opposite of myth. I have truth.
Chapter Thirty-Five
As mansions go Gabriel’s home is understated. It doesn’t have a bowling alley, a skating rink, or an Olympic-sized swimming pool. No solid-gold molding. The elite of Tanglewood want more pomp and circumstance for their millions.
Instead the house has an unassuming front, two white columns the only adornment. Inside it’s spacious but dimly lit, giving the appearance of being cozy.
The library is dark, only embers in the fireplace. I cross the rug to where Gabriel reclines in one of the wide leather armchairs beside the chess set, his posture innocuously casual. You might not guess that he had bruised three ribs and punctured a lung in the house.
He refused a hospital, choosing instead to be seen by his personal doctor. A doctor who had warned me that our patient was particularly stubborn. Watch for shortness of breath, muscle weakness, fatigue. He probably won’t tell you when he gets tired, but he needs to rest.
He looks the opposite of tired, lounging with leashed power.
“Gabriel. Can I get you something?”
His eyes burn with accusation. “What did you have in mind?”
“Tea. A blanket.” I had known he would be angry, but I refuse to let him push me away. “It’s only fair that I help you heal.”
“If you think this is going to make me go easy on you, think again.”
“I know you’re mad about the fire,” I begin. “You told me not to go to the house.”
He leans forward, the slow movement his only concession to injury. “I’m not mad that there was a fire, Avery. At least I’m not mad at you. When we find Jonathan Scott, he’ll pay for that.”
“Damon hasn’t found him yet?”
The last I saw of Damon was at the fire. He’s been a man on a mission ever since. After decades of living in the same city, never speaking, Damon wants to kill his father.
“He’s gone underground. And when a man like Jonathan Scott goes underground in this city, he’s untraceable. A fucking ghost in the twisted machine that is Tanglewood.”
“For good?”
“I’m sure he’ll strike when we least expect it.”
My stomach twists with unease. “And the house?”
“It’s coming down.” He gives me a sideways look. “Unless you want me to rebuild it.”
I swallow hard. “You would do that for me?”
“Haven’t you figured that out, little virgin? I would do anything for you.”
My heart expands, beating wildly. “Why?”
“Don’t change the subject,” he says, his voice silky with menace. “All I can think about is spanking your hide until it’s pink, and then red, and then black-and-blue. And even then I wouldn’t stop punishing you.”
“Why?” The word comes out as a squeak.
“I told you to leave.”
“Leave you in a burning building?”
“Exactly.”
“I could never do that. I mean, I don’t even think I could do that for a stranger. And you’re—”
“What am I?” he asks, a challenge thick in his voice. “What do you think you know?”
I place my palm against his hard jaw, feel the tension coursing through him. And recognize it for what it is. Fear for me. Love. “I know that you’re a man on the edge.”
His hand grasps my wrist, squeezing in threat. “On the edge of what?”
“You tell me.”
“I would break every single rib over and over again, every goddamn bone in my body if I could stop this horrible feeling, this constant need to have you near me, under me. Wrapped around my cock.”
A small laugh escapes. “I think it will be a while before we do that.”
Golden eyes narrow. “Why’s that?”
My eyes flick down to his chest. A black T-shirt covers him, the thin fabric tracing the lines of his bandages. “You’re injured.”
“Not too injured for that.” He moves my hand down to his jeans. His hard length greets my touch, pulsing against my palm.
“No way. The doctor told me you would be trouble.”
A low growl. “I’ll show you trouble.”
“No, no,” I say quickly, knowing he’ll make good on his threat. And then he really would hurt himself. “Maybe in a couple weeks we could try something slow—”
“Now.”
“But what if you—”
“I’m sure I can think of a way to fuck you without killing myself.” He considers that. “Almost sure. Doesn’t matter. There’s no way I’m waiting two weeks to feel your sweet cunt.”
The word is a stroke between my legs, making me whimper. “It’s too soon.”
“If you don’t climb on top of me, it will be too late.”
My eyes widen as I realize he’s telling the truth. His erection presses against his pants, taut and large. Just from talking to me, looking at me. He would rather break his bones than need me, but he doesn’t get that choice. I thought I was powerless, but he’s the one bound.
Carefully, slowly, I climb onto the armchair, placing my knees on either side of his legs. He makes a low sound when I brush against his chest, but when I try to pull away, he clasps me tight.
I reach between us, unleashing his cock. It falls against my stomach, heavy and slick at the tip. I bite my lip, pressing it between my legs. When I look up at him, he’s watching the place where we touch, his lids low, hands holding my thighs hard enough to leave marks.
“Dying?” I ask him softly.
He laughs and then groans. “Fuck yes.”
I press down, sheathing him, savoring the ache from his size. When I’m seated against him, I can feel his legs under my ass, his coarse hair against my bare skin. He flexes inside me, and my body clenches in response. It’s a wordless communion, an echo of the look we share. It’s unbearably intimate to see his expression, his need. Unbearably vulnerable to know he sees the same in me.
Rising up, I gasp at the slide of him. When I’m at the apex, his fingertips dig into my hips, dragging me back down again. Our bodies clasp together, and he groans.
“Again,” he demands.
My legs tremble, but I obey him, thrusting myself on top of him, using my whole body to pleasure him, shaking muscles squeezing him inside, slick flesh adding friction.
A tortured sound fills the space, and I realize it’s me. It’s one thing to let him plunder me, to open my legs and feel him slide inside—another thing to be the force of my own submission, to let gravity and my own desire to please him stretch me wide.
It felt like fucking heaven to break you open. That’s what he said, and I see that it’s true. A strange release to feel the pain, to inflict it, to choose who to hurt. And then his eyes flash with agony, his cock pulses inside me, and his body goes tense as he comes with a loud groan.
My flesh can only ripple around him, only want and need and flux, until his thumb goes to my clit, a rough flick—that’s all I need. It sends me over until I’m pressing myself against his hips, my flesh tender against the coarseness of his hair, sex damp with his spend.
I fix our clothes and move to stand. He pulls me back to his lap.
“Look at me,” he says, voice soft with threat.
It’s a struggle, but I meet his gaze. “Gabriel.”
“I thought you were going to die in that house.”
“We’re safe now,” I whisper, wanting to reassure him. Wanting to reassure myself.
But I’m not sure we can ever be safe with Jonathan Scott in the city. He killed my mother. I know that now. That house was my family’s castle. We were invaded by a Trojan horse in the form of hidden cameras, ripped apart by a weapon in the form of a secret.
And Jonathan Scott could strike again at any time.
For now we’re safe behind thick walls.
We need to fortify them for whatever comes next.
“I thought I was going to have to watch you die, Avery. Do you know what that did to me? Seeing you in danger and unable to help you?”
The anguish in his eyes rips a hole through my shield. I have nothing to protect me, nothing to do but admit the truth. “It would have done the same thing to me if I’d left you there.”
I touch my forehead against his, closing my eyes. He pulls in a shuddering breath.
“Then we both lost,” he murmurs. “A stalemate.”
“Both of us helpless. Both of us trapped.” The fate he wanted for my father, but it bound us together instead. A curse reflected in black-and-white, each side a mirror.
Neither of us can escape. Neither of us wants to.
“To remain,” he says, his hands tightening on mine.
And that’s what we are. I wouldn’t change it for the world. Not for a million dollars. Some games you prefer to lose. I will remain on this board with him, the man I love.
“Play with me?” I whisper against his lips.
“Always.”
Epilogue
We spend the next week in bed, in the library. In his office. Doing all manner of illicit things, some even illegal in a few states. Neither of us feel inclined to leave the safety of these walls. But eventually the world intrudes. Gabriel gets a call from Charlotte telling him a merger needs his attention.
He’s dressed in a suit, his jaw freshly shaved, his eyes veiled. Standing in the middle of the room, he exudes confidence and strength. I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of the chessboard to him like this.
I leave the bed, my nightgown a slinky contrast to his stark power. “Have a nice day, Mr. Miller.”
He tucks me against his side, the suit fabric cool against my arms. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Of course.” I give him a chiding look. “You’re the one healing from fractured ribs. I’m completely fine.”
That’s not entirely true. I suffered some smoke inhalation during the fire. Wracking coughs that went on for days. Or maybe just minutes. And worse than the cough are the nightmares. Flames. Fear.
Gabriel’s expression darkens. “I’ll stay home.”
And every night Gabriel has been there to wake me up, to hold me in his arms, to murmur reassurance. At one time I wouldn’t have believed he could be tender. Now I know what’s underneath the muscle and flesh, the sternness and dark sensuality.
“Hey,” I tell him softly. “You’re only a phone call away. And you’ll be back tonight.”
He frowns. “A half day.”
My heart does a jump with relief. The truth is I want him to come home quickly. I don’t want him to leave at all. But I don’t want him to worry about me. If I don’t convince him I’m okay he’ll stay out of obligation. “Take as long as you need. Trust me, I need a long soak in that tub of yours with all the spray jets. Actually it will be good for me. I’m a little…sore.”
He narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Is it working?”
“No.”
I smile. “Good. Because I want you home. Once I’m well rested we can spend all night getting reacquainted. Ten hours is a long time to go without seeing you.”
“Oh, little virgin. Ten hours? After two you’ll be all closed up again, your body tight and fully healed. It will be my pleasure to tear you apart again.”
Heat sparks in my core, spreading along my skin like wildfire. My cheeks heat. “Maybe you could be a little late?”
He smiles coolly, enjoying my discomfort. “I couldn’t possibly. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
I press against his side, savoring the hardness of him. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t go anywhere,” he warns, ignoring my plea. “If you need something talk to Blue.”
Security has been outrageous here ever since the fire. Patrols as if we’re in some kind of military compound. Men at every exit. More cameras installed. It’s supposed to make me feel safe, but I can’t shake the nervous anticipation.
“I’ll stay here,” I promise.
With a single hard press of his lips against mine, he’s gone.
After a few minutes of aimless wandering in his room, I head into the bathroom. The tub is truly lovely, large and filled with jets, water pouring down from a ledge built with stone. Little glass pots on the side are filled with everything I could want, and I pour in a small scoop of sea salt and a few drops of lavender oil. Steam fills the room, coating every shiny and reflective surface. It’s like bathing in a cloud. I close my eyes, breathing in the relaxing aroma.
The doorbell chimes. I jolt with surprise, sending water over the ledge.
My breathing is too fast. You’re safe, I remind myself.
There’s more protection here than at Tanglewood City Hall. Not to mention, if anyone had bad intentions they probably wouldn’t announce themselves by using the doorbell.
I grab a thick white towel and step out of the bathtub, taking care on the slippery floor. I dress in jeans and a T-shirt, my wet hair in a ponytail.
A man named Blue is in charge of security here. Apparently he owns a prestigious company that does protection for businesses, even celebrities. Gabriel insisted that he personally oversee my safety.
My heart skips a beat when I see what’s leaning against the wall.
Large and flat, wrapped in brown cardboard. “That’s me,” I say. “That’s mine.”
Even before I look at the label from the antiquities dealer in Maine, I know that it’s my mother’s portrait. I started looking for it as soon as the escrow account transferred to my name. Gabriel offered to buy it for me, but I refused. It’s important that the money from the auction goes toward rebuilding my life. My virginity will always be twisted with shame and responsibility, with darkness and dread, but there’s one bright spot. Because with that money comes independence.
I’m here by choice. I’m with Gabriel because I want to be.
It cost a small fortune to track down the picture. The original dealer had sold it to an anonymous buyer. I had to pull a Polaroid from insurance records and send it all over the country. Finally I found it. The agent I spoke with over the phone assured me it was the same painting. He even sent me a digital picture from his phone to confirm. I bought it from him immediately and had it shipped.
Blue’s expression is usually intimidating, military presence combined with hard experience. Now it turns even more forbidding. “I need to inspect the package, Ms. James.”
“I appreciate you taking the job seriously, but it’s just a painting. And it’s kind of personal.”
He nods without apparent sympathy. “I need to inspect it first.”
I hold back a sigh. “Okay.”
“If you could wait upstairs.” From the look on his face, this isn’t a request. It’s an order. And I’m guessing this man isn’t used to being disobeyed.
I know he’s under the strictest orders from Gabriel, so I take pity on him. “You have five minutes.”
Once upstairs I linger on the landing, elbows resting on the balcony. Blue glances at me, and I know he wants to tell me to go away. What does he think is in that package—a bomb?
He must think better of it, because he pulls out a pocket knife and slits the cardboard. I cringe, not wanting the blade to touch the painting, but there’s some padding underneath. And Blue is very careful, I’ll give him that. Even from far away
I can see his delicate handling of the piece.
From here all I can see is jewel tones in the paint, a champagne gold frame.
Excitement twists my stomach into knots. I force myself to stand still as Blue runs his hands along the sides and inspects the backing. If there’s even a speck of dust on that painting he’ll find it. That’s how carefully he covers every inch.
He takes his protection duties seriously, I’ll give him that much.
Helen of Troy has been represented in wildly different ways, from a dark seductress to an unwitting spoil of war. Her agency and motivations vary in every depiction, but one fact holds true. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. The ancient Greeks didn’t consider beauty to be in the eye of the beholder. It was an objective trait, the universal value of a woman. Helen was the definitive best, all others judged against her perfection.
Every story of my mother is both true and false. Even the one she told herself through her diary. Filled with hopes and desires and dreams. With love for a man who didn’t deserve it.
In the end all I have left is her beauty, immortalized in this painting.
Finally Blue stands back and nods to me. “It’s clear.”
I dash down the curving staircase, eager to see the painting that had once been so familiar to me. I haven’t seen it in months, aside from the photographs. They’re too dark to see details, too impersonal to feel her presence. Now I get to see the real thing.
Blue has replaced some of the brown packing paper over the painting, maybe in deference to the fact that he opened it. I pull the paper away.
And I’m looking in a mirror.
Not the kind made of glass, not the kind that frosts over in a bath. This is a mirror made of acrylics and canvas, color and shadows. A painting, but it’s not my mother. It’s me.
She and I look similar, but this painting is different. My eyes are a little wider, a little more innocent. My blonde hair falls around my shoulders instead of pulled up. I’m smiling instead of solemn. And I’m wearing a glittering pink dress I remember from my society days.
It’s definitely me.
Right on the canvas where my mother should be. My stomach drops for miles.