I can feel the heat of him from across the room. My skin prickles, and I have to work hard to keep my hands steady on the puzzle pieces. I’m wearing his old t-shirt—the gray one that’s too big for me—and I feel exposed, like he can see right through the cotton. I know he’s looking at my neck, at the way my hair is pulled up, at the way I’m leaning forward.
I don't look at him. I focus on the puzzle, but I can’t stop my heart from thumping against my ribs. It’s a choice, him standing there. He knows I know he’s there. He’s waiting to see if I’ll break.
He doesn't say a word. He just stands there, a dark, looming presence against the bright sunroom, his eyes fixed on the back of my neck. I feel like I'm vibrating. My stomach is in knots, a mix of anxiety and that sharp, needy pull I can't shake off. I wantto turn around. I want to see if he's as tired as he looks. I want to see if he's thinking about last night, too.
After a long minute, he turns around. I hear his boots on the tile, retreating down the hall. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Daddy’s quiet today," Maeve says. She doesn't even look up from the puzzle.
"Yeah," I whisper. "He is."
Dinner is strange.
Lorcan is sitting at the head of the table, his tie gone, sleeves rolled up. He isn't talking much. He’s watching Maeve, but his eyes keep sliding over to me. He isn't trying to hide it. There’s a look on his face I haven't seen before. It’s not cold, and it’s not his usual "don’t talk to me" glare. It’s just steady. Like he’s trying to memorize something.
I feel a heat creep up my neck. I look down at my plate, trying to focus on the food. Every time I glance up, he’s still looking. It makes me want to fidget. It makes me want to stand up and walk around the table just to see what he’d do.
I’m starting to get a picture of him, piece by piece. And I don’t like how much I’m starting to care about the details. It’s becoming a problem.
Later, after Maeve is asleep, I’m back in the study. I should be working on the ledgers. They’re a mess, and I’m close to finding the gap where the money is disappearing. But I can’t focus. I keep thinking about dinner. I keep thinking about the way his eyes looked when he watched me.
I hear the door click. I know it’s him. I don't turn around.
"Still here," he says. His voice is deep, like a low hum in the room.
"I’m almost done," I say. My voice sounds thin.
He walks toward me. I hear the slow, steady sound of his boots. He stops right behind my chair. He’s so close I can feel the heat coming off his chest.
"You’re working too hard," he says. His hand moves, hovering just an inch from my shoulder, but he doesn't let it land. It’s like he’s testing me.
"I have to get this done," I say. I turn my head slightly, looking at him over my shoulder.
He’s staring down at me. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are dark, looking like they’re struggling to stay focused on my face instead of my throat or my mouth. He looks like he’s fighting his own body to stay back.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I need to," I say.
He leans down, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair. He’s trapping me now. I can smell the whiskey on his breath. My heart is racing, beating so hard it feels like I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I want him to do something. I want him to just grab me and pull me out of this chair.
"You’re not really auditing these," he says. He isn't even looking at the screen anymore. He’s looking at my lips.
"I am," I whisper.
"You’re looking for a reason to stay," he says.
I turn around in the chair so that I’m facing him. I’m trapped between his arms. I reach up and touch his cheek. His stubble is rough against my palm, and he leans into my hand instantly, his eyes closing for a second. It’s such a small, human thing, and it hits me harder than any of his cold stares ever did.
"Lorcan," I say.
He opens his eyes. They’re dark, almost black in this light. He looks like he’s in pain, like he’s trying to figure out how to be near me without losing his mind.
"You’re going to be the death of me," he says.
"You’re the one who kidnapped me," I point out, though there’s no bite in it.
He doesn't smile. He just keeps looking at me, his hand hovering over my knee, his thumb tracing the fabric of my leggings. He’s so close I can feel the tension in his shoulders. He wants to touch me. I can see it in the way his hand twitches.
