I slide my hands down her back to her ass, and squeeze just enough to make her squeak against my lips. Traveling further down to her thighs, I lift her up, never breaking the kiss, while I wrap her legs around me and carry her around my desk. The chair catches me as I lower the two of us onto it. Reaching up her shirt, I run my hands over her belly, and up toward her breasts, while I devour the flavor that lingers on her lips.
Straddled over my thighs, she pushes against my chest, pulling her lips from mine, and breathes hard between us. Quiet for a moment, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry for this, but I have to know. I have to ask. What really happened to your son?”
As soon as the question tumbles out, my suspicions about Nell are confirmed. It isn’t the first time the woman has attempted to scare off one of the staff here with her little conspiracy theories. We let her off with a warning the last time, on the grounds that it’s not easy hiring help with the Blackthorne reputation looming over this place. She’s not the first to try and piece together what happened to my son, and won’t be the last, it seems, as much as I hoped otherwise with Isa.
With a light nudge, I back her off my thighs, and she clambers to her feet, standing before me.
“You want to know if I killed my son.”
“If I offended you, I didn’t mean ... I’m just trying to--“
“I want to show you something.” I lean forward and open the largest of three drawers on my desk. The moment I slide it out, the familiar pangs of agony punch at my chest. Held within, are pictures and drawings, a few crayons, and Roark’s favorite toys. The last remnants of my son that I gathered and stored away, keeping them for myself. I’ve never shown anyone my collection. Never gave a shit what anyone thought about me.
Isa kneels down beside the drawer and reaches in for a picture that I can’t bear to look at right now. He was two and a half years old, and my mother had snapped a picture of us, as I’d just tossed him into the air and caught him. Roark’s face was bunched with laughter, his tiny hands plastered at my cheeks as I held him up for a kiss.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t start out the best father. I hate myself every day for that. But he’s the only thing in this world that I learned how to love.” As if I’ve torn open an old wound, my chest aches with the admission, and I frown to keep the familiar anger from rising to the surface. I don’t owe her any of this, but without it, I’m still the monster. The Devil of Bonesalt who murdered his wife and son. At least now she knows, even the devil was capable of love once.
Eyes brimming with sadness, she sets the picture back into the drawer and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Lucian, I’m so sorry.”
Words that fail to breach my disappointment. All my life, I’ve battled rumor and fairy tales, if not of my father’s infidelity, then my mother’s flirtations. The accusations about my son and wife are something I have to live with for the rest of my life.
It’s fucking exhausting.
“I know now what first drew me to you.” The familiar jab of pain strikes my temples, and I screw my eyes shut, trying to ignore the agonizing distraction. “You were different. You didn’t cower like I was some kind of murdering monster. You looked me in the eyes when you spoke to me, like you saw right past all this shit.” I gesture to my face where the disgusting vestiges remain, and shake my head. “But you are just like them. Just like everyone else who feeds into the bullshit lies.”
“I’m not, Lucian, I swear.”
Another stab of pain is lightning behind my eyelids, and I breathe hard through my nose, mentally counting to ten, just like when I was a kid, waiting for the chasing thunder. “Get out.”
“Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--”
“Get out!” The anger comes too fast, pounding against my skull, and I slam the heels of my hands against my temples. Breathing. Keep breathing.
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, four-one-thousand …
Like needles piercing the bone, the jagged edges of pain skate over my brain, throbbing and pulsing against the back of my eyes, until the incessant pounding finally slows. The waves of agony settle to a placid calm once more, and I open my eyes to find Isa is no longer there.
Breathing hard through my nose, I let the misery fall away. When I stand up from the chair, vertigo sets in, and I stumble back, letting the soft leather catch my fall.
With a trembling hand, I run my fingers over my forehead and close my eyes on the dizzying blur of the room.
“She’s pretty.” The melodic sound of a thick French accent ripples down my spine, and I blink awake to find Solange knelt down between my splayed thighs. Her nails rake across my trousers, and she pushes up to her knees, resting her belly against my groin. “Does she excite you, young master?”
She comes to me sometimes, when I’m stressed. I know she’s not real, even if she feels real. Sounds real. Smells real.
“Yes,” I answer, watching her unlatch my trousers, the wily smile showing off her one crooked tooth.
“She makes you hard, I see.” Massaging the ache between my thighs has me grinding my teeth, and when she gives a light squeeze, my thighs come up off the chair as I let out a growl of frustration. “Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s young. Delicious. And there is nothing more exciting than the forbidden fruit.” With her hand shoved down inside my trousers, she slides her palm up my shaft over the thin, silky fabric of my boxer briefs. “Pretend I’m her. Take me any way you want, Lucian.”
I set my hand over hers to make it stop. “No.”
“You know the rules,” she breathes, her voice louder inside my head. “You can’t have both of us.”
“Then, leave.”
A shocked expression meets my gaze, as if she’s just been slapped. “You would send me away? Why?”
“Lucian?” At the quiet pitch of Isa’s voice, I freeze, opening my eyes to find my own hand down inside my pants, Solange nowhere in sight. “I’m sorry.” Fingers fidgeting where she keeps her hands crossed in front of her, Isa’s standing in the middle of my office again. “I know you said to leave, but … who were you talking to? A second ago?”
There’s an uncertainty in her voice, one I know very well. It’s come in other forms from various people--strange looks, avoidance, and in the worst cases, has resulted in more treatments and drugs.
“Why are you still here?” I slide my hand out of my pants and twist my chair to face her.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Gaze cast from mine, she clears her throat. “Who’s Solange?”
Christ, I don’t even remember having said her name, at all. “No one.”
Still not bothering to look at me, she nods. “I see that. But you were talking to her anyway.”
“And you wouldn’t have seen anything, if you’d have left as I asked.”
Warm gray eyes finally lift to mine, the stubborn glint behind them telling me she doesn’t intend to let this go.
The question isn’t should I tell her, because at this point, anything I tell her will sound the same. It doesn’t matter who Solange is to me. What matters is that Isa will have yet another reason to stay away from me.