by Winters, W.
I wonder how long that will last.
The drunken comment she made the other night hasn’t left me. That night, as soon as she was asleep, I made arrangements.
She said she’s going to leave me one day. That she’s going to run away and hide in her room until the war is done with. She was drunk, but she said it as if it was a fact.
She doesn’t remember saying it, but that doesn’t change anything.
I won’t let her leave me. She’s never allowed to leave me.
I asked her why she’d leave me, and she said so simply, that sometimes she just wants to breathe but can’t even do that without overthinking everything.
I won’t give her a bedroom, but she can have a room to run to.
I can hide what’s going on from her until her questions fade and all she has left is me.
“What is this?” Aria asks as the door opens.
“It was a storage room,” I answer her with one hand splayed on her lower back and one hand on the door to push it open as far as it’ll go.
“And now?” she asks aimlessly as she takes a step into the brightly lit room. Her face is filled with awe as she steps further into the lushly decorated room.
Other than a gray paisley wallpapered wall to the left, where one would presume a bed to sit, the remainder of the walls are a soft blush, nearly white.
The chair at the vanity is lined with a matching gray striped fabric and beyond it are glass vases and a matching glass standing light.
Gray and blush are the only two colors. The decorator referred to the color scheme as mineral tones, but it looks feminine as fuck to me. I wanted Aria to know this room was designed for her, so every piece of furniture and item contained in this room was meant to ensure she knew it belonged to her.
Everything else, from the plush white rug in the center of the room to the sheer curtains, is white. A glass table and mirrored nightstands allow the light to shine through with no obstructions.
It didn’t take long for the company to put it together. Her room is at the other end of my wing, farthest away from my bedroom. It was Jase’s suggestion and the only reason I agreed was due to my impatience. I needed it done quickly considering we’re only days away from all-out war.
“What do you want in return?” Aria asks me hesitantly.
My expression turns hard for a moment while I consider her. “This isn’t a negotiation or a game, Aria. It’s a gift.” Her beautiful hazel eyes widen slightly and her lips part to apologize, but I interrupt her to ask, “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” she says reverently as she admires the details of each of the pieces, only taking small glances at me to keep track of how I’m assessing her as she reacts to the room.
“There’s no bed?” she asks quietly with a touch of confusion as she stares toward the wall where one should obviously sit.
“You can sleep in my room…” I almost add, “or the cell,” but I choose not to. She seems to hear the words regardless, her eyes drifting to the floor as she swallows thickly.
“This isn’t a room I’d like you to consider your bedroom.” My words bring her gaze back to me. Choosing my words carefully, I tell her, “You belong with me, but this is a place for you to go if you need… space.”
She only nods, and I think that’s all the reaction I’ll get until she peeks up at me, her fingers trailing along the patterned wallpaper, and says softly, “Thank you.” The gratitude melts the tension between us, and it soothes a deep need inside of me for her to want what I can give her.
I watch Aria walk hesitantly to the vanity, intricately carved and an antique, but stunning. She barely touches the cut glass knobs before pulling out the drawers and finding her things there.
Not the ones she had at her home, but new ones to replace each item she had.
Her hand hovers above them for a moment, almost as if she’s afraid she’ll be bitten by something inside if she moves too quickly.
Her pace is quicker as she moves to the closet, filled with all kinds of clothing. From expensive dresses and lingerie to nightshirts I was told she prefers.
“I enjoy picking out what you wear,” I tell her and catch her attention as she turns to look at me, although her hand is still caressing the silk of a deep red blouse.
“And you choose red,” she says beneath her breath before turning back to the closet. “There’s certainly a theme.”
“Red complements you well,” I answer her although she doesn’t respond. I take a single step toward her, but she continues to examine the room, taking in each bit with care.
“If you’d like something changed,” I tell her as she opens a nightstand drawer, “it can be arranged.”
She stares at me as she shuts the drawer. There’s an edge to her movements.
“How did you know?” she asks, and her question is laced with tension.
“Know what, exactly?” I ask her, my muscles coiling from the tone of her voice.
Her gaze shifts to the open door before her eyes land on me. Her fingers play with the edge of her blouse in a nervous fidget.
“You have a lot of things here.” She licks her lip and debates on continuing, but she doesn’t need to.
“I asked for a list,” I answer her before she can ask how I knew what she’d want.
“There’s a rat,” she whispers, and her posture turns stiff.
“How did you think Romano knew when and where to acquire you?”
“Acquire… is that what you call it?” Her voice rises as she stalks toward me. Slow, deliberate steps and I can feel the tension rolling off of her shoulders. “The rat told you where to acquire your whore and what to fill her room with?” she asks me with shaky breaths and tears in her eyes.
“I wanted this to be nice for you.” The hard words linger between us as my throat tightens. Anger is written on my face; I can feel it like stone, but I can’t change my expression.
Of every smart comment and tiny bit of anger she’s shown me, this is the worst.
Distrust is clearly evident. I didn’t earn her distrust. I’m not the fucking rat.
“How did you expect me to react to being told someone was spying on me?” she asks with genuine distress as her lower lip wobbles and she catches it between her teeth before turning her back to me. I thought she already knew. She’s a smart woman, but I forget how trusting she is. How loyal.
Her arms cross and uncross as she debates on how to handle the revelation. She paces from the dresser to the vanity. Already pacing in this room. I have to fight the urge to smirk as I watch her pace back and forth over the white rug, which is exactly how I pictured her in here.
But not so soon, and not like this. This room is better than the cell if nothing else.
“I thought you would have assumed,” I tell her honestly and nervousness prickles my skin as she glares back at me. It’s unsettling and I debate on leaving her here, but I refuse. She’s not going to take her anger out on me. Not when it belongs to someone else. “It wasn’t supposed to upset you. I wanted you to have everything you could have possibly wanted,” I admit to her and try to keep my voice even and calm, but the anger toward her response still lingers.
The nervousness grows inside of me, and I’m sickened by it. I thought she would appreciate this. I thought she would be excited to have everything she had before. Or at least grateful. I thought wrong.
I should feel irritated or pissed, but that’s not what I feel at all. I’ve done this to her. She can’t accept a gift without being cautious of my intentions.
With a growing pit in my stomach, I speak without meeting her eyes. I stare straight ahead at the hanging curtains that are only meant to add beauty to the locked windows that will never open for her.
“I wanted to make you happy,” I tell her and clear my throat of the spiked knot. “I thought this would make you happy,” I pause to run my hand over the back of my head, feeling the ever-present crease that reminds me how shitty I am at knowing what she needs beyond
a good fuck and finally look into her thoughtful gaze that’s already softening, “or at least provide you comfort.”
My heart beats faster as she stares back at me with a kindness she hasn’t before given me. “I’m trying to be gentle,” I confess to her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers in a choked voice. The second I feel myself wavering and losing the man I am to this woman, she wanders toward me and wraps her arms around my waist, her hands splaying on my shoulders as she hugs me.
It takes me a moment to hold her to me and when I do, I kiss her hair and bury my face in it before she pulls away.
Her eyes are glassy but she doesn’t cry; she sounds strong, although a few of her words crack as she says, “It’s just a reminder… of everything that I’ll never have again.” She gestures to the room and exhales deeply before adding, “It’s beautiful and it does give me comfort. You have no idea how much I love this. I do.” She swallows with her eyes closed and then runs her fingers through her hair. I wait patiently for her to continue.
“I’m sorry, it’s just… there’s always something that happens that proves I know nothing and I’m lost.”
“You’re not lost.” My response is immediate, and my tone is one I expect from myself. It’s not to be questioned. “You belong here, with me.”
Her shoulders steady as her breathing calms and her formerly emotionally-distraught features calm once again, but it’s an act. She’s brimming inside with a mixture of fear, betrayal, anger, and confusion.
“You’re only lost because you want to be,” I tell her low and deep, reaching out and pulling her small body closer to me.
Her hands land on my chest and she gasps slightly before looking up at me.
“I can give you everything. I can give you what you never even dreamed of before.” I mean every word. I can and will.
Her long hair shines in the light as she nods, making it swish along her collarbone. She’s compliant, but her wide eyes are full of questions. Questions she doesn’t ask me. Some of them I’m grateful I won’t have to answer.
“If you want to run, you run here.”
“Carter, there are things you can’t replace.” She looks straight ahead at my chest as she speaks and her shoulders shudder. “Money can’t replace--”
“I’m fully aware of what money can’t replace. Nothing can erase the past. Nothing can bring it back.” The sharp edge of my words and the pain and anger I refuse to hide in them erase her desperation to beg me for what I will never give her.
“I’ll give you what I can. Everything that I’m able. But sometimes what we want most is impossible to achieve.” My throat tightens with emotion and just as it does, Aria props herself up on her tiptoes, gently caresses my face and kisses me.
It’s short and only a peck. Only a small kiss. Nothing like what we’ve shared before.
It feels different than it has before. Her touch is hesitant. A different kind of fear is in control of her and shows in her eyes. The kiss is meant to put an end to the conversation. She’s hiding in that act.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I command her although the edge of desperation is evident to me. I don’t think she can hear it. I pray she can’t.
Her answer doesn’t come quickly. She tries to leave me, and I cling to her, but she grabs my wrists and pulls my touch away as she tells me, “I’m scared.”
“You don’t have anything to fear if you obey me,” I tell her, pinning her gaze to mine.
“You don’t understand,” she whispers.
The unspoken words between us are causing a crack in the delicate balance of what we have.
The reality that she’s still my prisoner.
The truth that I won’t rest until her father is dead.
The fact that she won’t forgive me for killing everyone she’s ever known and loved.
And the fact I never want to be without her and I think she feels the same about me. If only she could accept what’s to come.
The Talverys will be massacred. And she, the sole survivor of her name, belongs to me.
Chapter 11
Aria
It’s too much, I think with my thumbnail in between my teeth as I lie in the soaking tub.
Every day, something changes, and I never know how to react or what it means for us. What it means about me.
How could I not have known someone was watching me?
It must have been Mika.
He was always watching and taunting and teasing, but I thought it was just because he was an asshole on a power trip.
I lower my hand back into the steaming water and try to settle against the edge of the tub. My foot slips up to the faucet, feeling the hot water splash against it.
I can feel my fight leaving. The urge to keep fighting and keep holding on to the girl I was before Carter acquired me is trickling out of me day by day.
He’s going to kill my family. My father. Nikolai. I know Carter will, no matter how much he cares for me.
That’s the most painful part. I think he does care for me, but Carter is ruthless and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. There’s no point in trying.
The hopelessness presses against my shoulders, threatening to push me under and drown away my sorrows.
I wish I was numb to it all. There’s nothing worse than being fully aware yet having no way to change any of it. Without fighting, I feel like a traitor. I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m living, and I don’t know how I can forgive myself for having feelings for the man who’s responsible for so many horrible sins.
Just as I feel tears pricking at my eyes, Carter’s voice startles me. “You’re tense.”
I try to hide my sniffling and feel pathetic that I’m crying at all. Carter ignores it though, offering me that small bit of mercy as he strips down and slowly sinks into the tub, scooting me forward so he can lie in the bath behind me. The water sloshes and rises higher up my body as he sinks into the tub.
His touch is gentle, and I don’t fail to notice that he’s hard already. Just the thought of his cock makes my thighs clench and the dull ache that never leaves sends a wave of want through me.
Maybe that’s why I don’t want to fight him. The only thing that takes away the pain and anger is the one thing he gives me constantly. And that makes me a whore of the worst kind.
The water sways and a shiver runs down my spine as Carter’s large hands press against my shoulders, pulling me into his chest. His fingers drift down my body, over the pearls and diamonds of his necklace that I always wear because he told me to, and the faint touch hardens my nipples and leaves goosebumps in his path to the hot water.
“What are you thinking?” Carter’s deep voice rumbles just as I close my eyes and I open them to stare at the tiled wall and answer bluntly.
“I was thinking I don’t want to kill you anymore because you fuck me so often.” The truth spills out easily, not even questioning my answer to him.
His rough chuckle almost makes me smile as he reaches for the sponge and then dips it into the steaming water.
“I’m so tired,” I say absently as Carter runs the sponge along my shoulder and down my forearm.
“It’s late. Later than you usually stay awake.” I spent hours in the gilded room. That’s what I’m calling it now. That’s all it is. Even if it is beautiful, and I do love that he had it built for me and I’m grateful to have my things back… or replicas of them.
“When do you even sleep?” I ask him. “You’re always awake when I go to sleep, and awake when I wake up.”
“I don’t like to sleep,” he answers me. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”
His even tone and lack of humor make my heart tense. Like it doesn’t want to beat when he talks like that.
Readjusting, I watch the film of bath oils move on the surface of the water and nestle my foot under Carter’s calf.
“You know we could have started this way,” I say weakly, not sure if I should broach the subject, but what do I have to lose?
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“What way?”
“With you giving me a room and being less of a monster.” The words slip out easily and Carter’s ministrations pause at the last word. But then he keeps going, continuing to wash me.
“And what would you have done? Destroyed the room and used the shards of glass to kill me?”
He’s not wrong. I could easily see that happening and the reality makes the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
What happened to that fight? To that edge I’m fully aware would have come out had the situation been different.
Nothing has changed. Carter stole me, keeps me prisoner and he’s going to kill my family.
None of that has changed. Yet here I lie against him, loving his touch and finding my heart being ripped into two.
“We should talk about something else,” Carter suggests.
The sound of the water falling from my shoulder to the tub is calming. Which is anything but what I should be feeling. The sponge is still hot, and it soothes my tired muscles.
“I could fall asleep in here,” I murmur absently. All I want to do anymore is sleep. I don’t know if I’m depressed, worn out, or if that’s what happens when you lose your fight.
“Can I wash you?” I ask him, wondering if he’d let me.
A moment passes and then he dips the sponge back under; I expect him to give it to me, but that’s not what happens.
“I like washing you,” he whispers against my ear, his warm breath creating a wave of want that flows through me. But my eyes stay open.
Of course, he wouldn’t want me to wash him. He couldn’t even let me suck his dick. A small huff of feigned humor leaves me, and I readjust in the water so that the sound of it splashing will drown out the huff, but he hears it anyway.
“What?” he asks and leans forward to look at my expression, pulling my shoulder against his to keep me from avoiding him.
I meet his dark gaze, the grays and silvers seeming to take over in the bathroom light. “Nothing, it just feels good. It’s nice to feel cared for.”
Without speaking he leans back, kisses the crook of my neck, and moves the sponge to my neck and chest.
