Page 35 of The Tyranny of our Longing

The shame of her offense settled onto her chest, mingling with a dull ache forming just underneath. She wished to say something more, to explain how she had not previously appreciated the extent of what his condition meant—the enormity of what it took from him. To voice her dismay at this cruel limitation to his life that would force him to walk in a world only half-revealed, oblivious to the magnitude of beauty around him. Because even if he did not know to miss it, it was still there, just beyond his reach.

Yet the words would not form. Not in the way he would need to hear them.

She closed her pad and rose from her seat as if in a daze. She barely registered as Nathaniel walked her to the door, pulling it open for her. But just as she would step out into the dim light of the hallway, he said, “Please do not feel sorry for me.”

The words came so unexpected, so much as if he had been reading her mind, that her steps faltered, and she looked up at him in surprise.

There was something straining against the serenity of his features, in the way his eyes searched her face, and his voice dipped low and soft as he said, “Trust me when I say, my life does not lack in beauty.”

She could feel the warmth of his body through the limited space between them, count his heartbeats through the subtle vibrations of his skin, and she suddenly knew without knowing that what held him back from reaching out for her was something very fragile indeed.

And as she stood there, held captive by this terribly familiar spell, its strange enchantment pulling this moment into infinity, she knew it would be a mistake. Yet the way her body ached, every muscle pulled taut by the mere thought of finally touching him, it was clear that it would take very little for her not to care.

She pulled in a shuddering breath, then forced the words through her jaw, clenched tight. “Goodnight, Mr. Hawthorn.” And then she stepped into the hallway, her heart beating with the erratic rhythm of madness.

CHAPTER 27

Green walls crawled by as Phaedra hurried up the stairs and into the hallway, their endless maze as if dragging at her steps, their steady thrum a chant in her wake. It almost felt as if they would hold her back—keep her from fleeing from the one thing she desired—and she hastened her steps still, afraid that they would convince her. Afraid that she would give in.

She pushed into her room, the heavy beat of her heart resonating in the awaiting silence, the ache burrowing its way into every inch of her body growing with every breath.

With rigid hands, she lit a candle, then watched her trembling reflection fumble with the buttons of her dress and the pins in her hair. And when she finally slid in among the sheets, their coolness doing nothing to quench the heat building beneath her skin, she knew sleep would not come soon. Not like this.

She pulled the covers to her chest, her eyes roaming over the dimly lit walls, searching for something to anchor her in this raging storm of burning sensation. The flicker of the light seemed to echo her own thundering pulse, and she wondered if Nathaniel felt the same at this very moment. If her own closeness had magnified into this intoxicating magnetism as his had for her. If his own want had moved beyond fleeting desire into a need defying all reason and even the idea of withstanding it to nothing less than torture.

She wondered what would happen if she were to go back to him. If he would welcome her, or turn her away. Or if he would already be there, standing outside her door, waiting to be let in.

She let out a tremulous breath, the pounding of her heart like steps approaching her door, and her eyes fluttered closed to the image of opening it to him.

She could almost taste the thickening air, feel how their breaths would fall heavy into the diminished space between them, and she saw herself step back, but only to allow him entry.

She could see the green of his eyes darken to near black, his youthful face breaking under the hunger raked over his features. There would be no more lingering trace of the boy he once was, only a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

Her pulse surged at the image of him shedding his clothes as he would approach, as she herself would retreat to guide him onto these very sheets. And then it would be her turn to pull the nightgown from her body, her ebony hair spilling over moon-kissed skin before his mouth would descend upon hers, hot and demanding.

She could almost feel how his burning skin would settle onto hers, her thighs parting to cradle the weight of his body. And as she would finally guide him into her, their ragged sighs coming alive on each other’s lips, they would finally become what they had always meant to be—forever swaying to the frenzied pace of their longing.

CHAPTER 28

Phaedra crossed the ballroom, her steps clicking on the marble floor, the light of her candle glinting off the dangling crystals of the chandeliers high above her head. She had awoken even before the first light of dawn could break over the horizon, her mind immediately filled with the memories of the night before. And although her body felt refreshed, as if after many restless nights she had finally slept soundly, she could not help the sense of unease for the threshold she had crossed. Because even if it had only happened in the confines of her mind, the knowledge that his name had been on her lips as she had found her release filled her with a mixture of twisting emotions she could not separate.

She knew she needed to work, to focus her mind on what had to be done, and forget everything else until she did it, because this—whatever this was—was not why she was here.

She placed the candle and her sketchbook on the work table, then sifted through the supplies she would need for the day. The smell of the wax wafted from its package as she peeled it open, pulling her thoughts to firmer ground.

She propped a new panel against the legs of the easel, then straightened to remove the finished painting from its ledge. But only when the sky began to brighten, the first rays of feeble sunlight displacing the amber glow of the candle glimmering on the wonder standing before her, did she realize she had not moved, but rather stood frozen, the beauty of this mixture of paint and fabric holding her in thrall.

It was almost impossible to breathe, the sight so exquisite it seemed to cut through to her very soul, condensing her existence to this one purpose—to behold. And as she lifted her hand, her fingers brushing across the soft folds of green, the transcendence of their color like a spell cast upon the world, she knew.

This. This was why she was here.

CHAPTER 29

The lengthening shadows of evening climbed the walls around her as Phaedra found herself standing at the threshold of Nathaniel’s study. She stared at the door, unsure how she had gotten there, when a wave of dizziness swayed her, and she splayed her hand against the smooth wood for support.

She had a vague notion of finishing her painting, of the frenzied hurry to complete it consuming every other thought, and she regarded the evidence staining her fingernails, wondering if it indeed had driven out even the idea of nourishment throughout the day.

Despite her rejuvenated state of that morning, her body now felt heavy, as if wrung of every will of motion. Yet she could not deny the charge moving her bones, this relentless urge to carry on with what they had started.