my throat constricting with the moan that I muffled.
My world was in constant chaos. The only quiet moments I had occurred when scotch was in my hand, but those moments were brief, fleeting. While she brought passion and fire into my life, she also gave me peace.
I’d never known peace.
My time with her wasn’t spent thinking about my empire, the men I spared but should have killed, my brother and his idiotic qualms. My past had faded further into the background, become less present in my mind and soul.
She was artwork, and like the paintings on my wall, when I looked at her, I only thought of beauty, of ponds filled with lily pads, of pink roses in the garden covered in drops of fresh rain.
Those were the images that flashed across my mind the first time I saw her.
Peace.
When we were finished, we got comfortable in bed, her body curled around mine, using me as a hard pillow that probably gave her neck a crick. Looking down and seeing her spread across my enormous bed in front of the fire made me feel even more powerful. I had the money, the power, the world…and now, I had the woman.
She fell asleep instantly, her arm loosening around my torso, her breathing deep and even.
I let her stay for a while, until the fire had burned down, until the night deepened so she wouldn’t wake up when I carried her to her bedroom. I slid from under her body, put on my boxers, and then carried her down the stairs to her bedroom.
The instant I stepped inside, it felt cold.
I got her into bed and walked toward her fireplace to get it started, to let the warmth make her bedroom feel like mine. When I moved to the living room, I saw her translation book there, along with a notebook filled with French phrases.
I stared for a while before I departed.
“Fender…?” Her quiet voice was raspy, like an hour of sleep was enough to make her throat go dry. She sat up and looked at the sheets as they fell down, realizing she was naked and her lingerie had been left behind. Then she surveyed the fire, slowly understanding where she was.
I stilled near the door, waiting for her unease to disappear when her surroundings became familiar to her. When she lay down again and closed her eyes, I would leave. I felt like a father making sure his child was tucked in for the night and unafraid of the monsters under their bed.
She didn’t lie down again. She looked at me with disappointment. Hurt. Pain. Resentment.
I held her gaze and issued no apology.
Her eyes slowly fell, and then she lowered herself back to bed, pulling the sheets over her shoulder. Another argument was futile, and she finally got that through her head.
I turned back to the door.
“You say the safest place in the world is at your side.”
I held on to the door but didn’t step into the hall.
“I’m not by your side, Fender. I’m alone.”
Seventeen
The Count of Monte Cristo
Melanie
Fender worked in his office the next day.
I worked on my French, took a walk outside because the rain had passed, and when I asked Gilbert to tag along, he said he had too much to do since Fender was in residence. When I sat in the garden room for lunch, Gilbert only served one tray.
I looked at the empty spot across from me where Fender should be. “He’s not coming?”
“Said he had too much to do. He’s taking his lunch in the office.” Gilbert excused himself.
I sat there alone. Now I was used to eating with either Gilbert or Fender, and without either one of them, it felt strange. There was only an empty chair across from me, a chair that I would never see because Fender’s enormous size covered it like a cobblestone wall.
I eventually gathered my things onto the tray and carried it toward the front of the palace to his office. The door was open, and he was behind his desk, his food beside him, his dark eyes focused on the screen of his laptop.
I took a seat in the sitting room and placed my silver tray on the table, where it made an audible clank.
His eyes immediately shifted to me, intense and deep, like two drops of shiny oil.
I turned back to my food and waited for him to berate me, to order me out.