Page 26 of His Holy Chaos

"Can I come in?"

He doesn't answer but after a moment, the door unlocks. I go in the ridiculously fancy lobby. It smells like money. No one is here, so I just cross it as fast as I can, not staring at the artwork on the walls which probably costs more than me. The elevator bank is a fucking cathedral of chrome, my reflection caught in those doors like a mugshot. When the car arrives with a soft chime, I lurch inside and my finger trembles over the penthouse button, the highest number.

His floor has only one door, black and imposing. Less than ten seconds later, it opens, and Ford fills the frame. He's in a black fancy sweater that probably costs more than my rent, and dark jeans. It's so casual it hurts my heart. His silver hair is slightly less disciplined than usual, as if I've caught him in the middle of being human. His feet are bare. For some reason, this does something to me.

He studies me for a beat. His eyes move from my face to my hands, which are shaking a little, and then back to my face. He steps aside.

"Come in," he says, and I try to analyze his voice, but I can't. He's just serious. Maybe a little disappointed.

Everything is in its place. Books arranged on the shelves. An orchid on the kitchen counter, white and perfect.

He doesn't ask me to sit. He leans against the kitchen counter, arms folded across that broad chest and watches me with patience that I don't deserve. I question if I even deserve being here at all.

"I'm sober," I say first, because it seems important to establish. "Completely. Four days." Four days isn't a lot. Four days is what normal people call Tuesday. But for me it's really, really good.

"Coffee?" he offers.

"No. I… no." I push my hands into my pockets, then pull them out again. I'm wearing a silly American Eagle white hoodie and sweatpants. I look like a fucking kid next to him. There's nowhere to put myself in this kitchen that doesn't feel like standing on a stage. "I need to say something to you, and if I sit down or drink coffee or do anything normal, I'm going to lose my nerve and make some joke about your orchid and leave."

The corner of his mouth twitches. He says nothing. He just waits, the bastard.

"What I did at BratWorld was inexcusable." The words come out rough. I can't look at his eyes. "The screaming. The scene I caused. The… all of it. I was cruel to you, and you didn't deserve it, and I'm sorry. I looked like an amateur in the scene, and not only that, like someone who should get a lifetime ban. I apologized to Glynn as well. I even feel like I should do some kind of volunteer service there to make up for it. And that's not…" I swallow hard. "That's not the part that's hard to say."

His expression doesn't change, as if he's saying go on.

"The hard part," I continue, and my voice has gone thin and strange, "is that the reason I did all of that is because I've developed feelings for you. Not only like 'I want to play with you.' Real ones. The kind I don't know what to do with. And when I don't know what to do with something, I destroy it. That's…" I laugh, and it comes out broken. "That's sort of my whole thing."

I can feel the heat climbing up my throat. I stare at a point just past his left shoulder because looking directly at him right now would be like looking at the sun.

"If someone's going to leave, I make them leave on my timeline." I pause, my chest heaving. "But that doesn't… I know that doesn't justify anything. I know it's an explanation, not an excuse. I'm sorry. I'm just so…"

Broken, is the word I can't say.

"I should also apologize to you, Jude," Ford says and I can't believe his words. "I kept pushing you away but not really. It was irresponsible and I promise I won't do it again."

I let my mouth drop open and then feel tears in my eyes. I'm such a crybaby.

"You don't need to apologize. You're so good to me."

"No. I was mean to you several times. You don't deserve that."

Now I chuckle and he looks at me softly. "I like it, silly."

"Well, not if it's not consensual and previously discussed."

"I want to ask you for something," I say, quietly. It's hard to speak and much harder to look at him.

"Say it."

"I need… consequences." I feel nauseated. "For what I did. I need… I want you to punish me. I know we're not… I know there's no dynamic, no anything. But please. I need someone to hold me accountable, and I need it to be you. I mean… only if you want to."

Something crosses his face then. He looks dangerous. I can see the desire in his eyes. His jaw sets. His shoulders roll back, and he seems to gain two inches without moving.

"Good," he says, simply. "Because I'm done pretending I don't want to."

The air is dense, my heart is going insane, and my stomach is flipping. He said yes.

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