“And you remind my mother of her too. I probably shouldn’t have brought you,” she says, casting a glance in my direction, her blue eyes wide. “They’ll all come for you, at one point or another. Looks like Whit already did.”
“You really think Leticia noticed?” I whisper, hating the shame that wants to wash over me.
“Ha! I knew you fucked him.” Sylvie thrusts her finger in front of my face. I bat it away. “She’s tolerated my brother’s shit for years. Mother has put the two of them together since they were practically born. She wants them together so they can, and I quote, create a legacy.”
Sounds like complete bullshit, but I say nothing.
“My daddy likes them younger and younger. You’re perfect for him. He’d love to rub it in my mother’s face that he had the mother and the daughter.”
I wince. So gross.
“So I advise you to stay out of his way,” she warns. “You definitely shouldn’t let him get you alone anywhere.”
Her warning is cryptic.
“I won’t,” I reassure her, taking a deep breath. “But what about Whit?”
“You’ve already dabbled with him enough that you have to know what you’re dealing with,” she says wryly. “It’s your funeral if you continue.”
We’re silent for the rest of the drive, me staring absently at my phone and Sylvie lightly snoozing. It is my funeral if I continue what Whit and I are doing. He’s treated me terribly, pretty much the entire time—but then there are the tender moments. The almost sweet moments. They’re rare, a tiny glimpse of Whit without his usual brashness. His walls come down, offering me the vulnerable, raw version of this man who is so incredibly dark.
His darkness matches my own. We’re kindred souls. We see each other for what we really are. Driven by our needs. Faintly disturbed. He disturbs me in the best possible way.
I hope I disturb him too.
By the time the car pulls around to the front of the house and stops, rain is falling steadily, and we dash inside, doing our best to avoid getting wet.
Sylvie clings to me as we approach the massive staircase, struggling to remain upright. She drank way too much tonight, and I remember what her mother said. About mixing alcohol with her medication. “Help me walk?” she asks.
“Of course.”
I guide her up the stairs, which seem endless. Down the corridor leading to her bedroom, which takes forever. I help her get undressed and into bed, noting how thin she is despite everyone saying she’s gained weight. She’s light as air, her arms like sticks, and when I tuck her into bed, she grabs hold of my hand and squeezes it to her chest, keeping me there.
“Thank you for being a real friend,” she murmurs, her eyes falling closed. I wonder how many real friends she’s actually had. “I’m sorry I made you come with me.”
“Maybe I should leave early,” I start and she jerks on my hand, her eyes flashing open as she sits straight up.
“No. Please don’t leave me. I know this was a terrible idea and you probably hate me for torturing you, but it won’t be so bad. I promise. As long as we stick together, I can protect you. And you can protect me.” She pats the empty side of her giant bed. “Sleep with me.”
I don’t want to. I want to be alone in my own room, with my own thoughts. She must see the hesitancy on my face because she pouts, her lower lip actually trembling, as if she might burst into tears.
“Please,” Sylvie whispers.
Sighing, I climb into bed with her. We talk a little, but she falls asleep fast, and within minutes, she’s lightly snoring. I watch her, with her angel face and thick black lashes. Her tangled blonde hair and rosebud lips.
Sylvie is beautiful. Fragile. Delicate. Like a doll. I want to protect her, but from what?
I slip out of her bed carefully so I don’t disturb her and take off my shoes, carrying them in my hand as I tiptoe out of her room. I shut the door behind me, glancing to my left, then my right, pausing when I see movement in the shadows.
The sound of soft footsteps echo on the marble floor and Whit slowly emerges from the dark, his hands in his pockets, his gaze intent. He stops, there’s at least twenty feet between us, but I can feel his presence as if he’s actually touching me.
I stare at him, saying nothing. He does the same. I turn away and with my head held high, leave the family wing, heading for my bedroom. I cross past the stairs, and the massive portrait of the original Augustus Lancaster. He stares down upon me, those light blue eyes so like Whit’s, and a shudder moves through me as I pick up my pace.
The portrait is intimidating. I don’t like it. There are all sorts of portraits around the house, all of them foreboding and giving me the creeps.
I’m practically running down the hall by the time I draw closer to my bedroom, aware of Whit’s presence. He stalks me like a cat in the jungle. Quiet. Patient. Confident.
It’s unnerving.
I slip into my room and shut the door, but I don’t lock it. Deep down, I want him to come in here. I want him to do whatever he wants to me, whenever he wants it. It’s still his birthday. I’ll give him whatever he wants, as long as he doesn’t stay mad at me. I’ll let him use me in any way possible for the entire week. I won’t refuse him.
It’s like I can’t.
I push away from the door and go to my duffel, tossing it onto the bed and unzipping the top. I rummage through my clothes, finding the one pair of panties and matching bra set I own. I’ll take a quick shower and change into this, I think, lifting my head when I hear the door slowly open.
Whit enters my room as if he owns it, which I suppose in a sense, he does. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, turning the lock into place. My heart rate ratchets up, my mouth going dry as I watch him. He leans against the door, much like he did earlier in the restaurant bathroom, contemplating me silently, his stance casual. As if he has all the time in the world.
I watch him in return, my underwear still clutched in my hand, my legs trembling at his nearness.
“It’s your birthday too,” he finally says and I blink at him.
I’d completely forgotten.
“Yes,” I finally say. “It is.”
“Was it everything you wished for?” he asks, his tone faintly mocking. He has to know that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
“Not at all.”
He approaches me, walking to the other side of the bed and pausing directly across from where I’m standing. “Were you hoping for a gift from me?”
“No.” I actually laugh. He doesn’t care enough about me to give me a present.
His gaze lands on the frilly cream lace I’m holding. “What are you doing?”
“I was going to take a shower.”
“Go take one then,” he says, inclining his head toward the bathroom.
“What are you going to do? Wait for me?” I ask incredulously.
“Is that what you want?”
I shrug.
“I need a yes or no answer, Savage.” He pauses. “Do you want me to wait for you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Go take your shower then.” He runs his hand along the sumptuous duvet cover. “Lock the door, though. There’s no telling what I might do, knowing you’re naked and rubbing soap all over your body while I wait for you.”