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Live happily in the present, even.
If he can show me the way to leave my own issues with Charlie behind, then I can show him too. If he can make me promise that I won’t run after the wrong things just to be loved and seen, then I can ask for promises too.
Or at least we can talk about it.
But I don’t think it’s happening because his next words are, “We’re done here.”
“But I —”
“We are.”
I stare at him. At his shuttered expression. At the closed-off way he’s holding himself, his impossibly broad shoulders rigid, his folded arms tight to the point where I can see the bulge of his biceps under his tweed jacket. As if his very body, his muscles and his bones are making a fortress around him.
They have built a wall that no one can get through.
Least of all me.
At least not right now.
So I take in a deep breath and ask, “Is that your final decision?”
“Yes.”
I nod. “Okay.”
This is way too important for me to simply let go. We are going to revisit this at some point whether he likes it or not.
But for now we’re done.
His eyes narrow. “So what was it that you wanted to talk to me about.” Then, “Given that we’re still operating under the assumption that this is a co-incidence.”
“What?”
“You showing up here, at my office, right when Cynthia was here.”
I’m confused. “Um, it is a co-incidence.”
“Like it was the night you showed up at my cottage.”
I’m still confused.
But then something flashes in his eyes. Something like knowledge.
Like he knows a secret, and instantly, I’m not confused anymore.
Instantly, I know what he’s talking about.
The night I showed up at his cottage claiming that I had a nightmare.
Holy God.
He knew.
“I…” I look to the side, swallowing. “You… You knew.”
A look of satisfaction crosses his features. “That you eavesdropped on my conversation with Cynthia? Yeah.”
“But then why did you…”
He shrugs, and like it always does in that lazy way of his, it looks as if a mountain is lifting and moving. “I just needed an excuse to send her away.”
“But you made me tea for my nightmare,” I say, my voice sounding a little breathless.
With his eyes steadily watching me, he replies, “Because I wasn’t willing to take a chance and not. Take care of you, I mean. In case you really had had one.”
And then my little breathlessness turns into a whole lot.
It turns into restlessness and thoughtlessness and racing of hearts.
So much so that I have to look away from him for a second. I have to pace myself so I don’t lose my balance. So I don’t lose this determination that I’ve managed to hold on to for the past week, to stay away from him.
To not throw myself at him.
To not show him all the places on my body that hurt and ache for him so he can make it better.
I mean, it’s his job, isn’t it?
To make things better for me.
So why can’t he do this?
Why can’t he touch me and kiss me and make this ache go away?
I mean, he’s already seen me all naked. What’s a little kiss?
My first kiss.
Biting my lip, I look back at him. “Alaric?”
His chest is moving up and down now, his features tight and determined. “No.”
“But I haven’t even said anything yet,” I say, frowning.
“You don’t have to,” he growls. “Your fuck-me eyes are saying plenty.”
I pout. “But all I want is —”
“No,” he growls harder. “Don’t say it.”
“But —”
“No, Poe.”
Things ache in my body at his refusal. “It hurts.”
He winces. “You’ll get over it.”
I shake my head slowly. “I won’t. It’s going to bruise.”
“You’ll get over that too.”
I fist my fingers. “Why are you doing this?”
He waits so long to answer me that I think he won’t.
That I think I’ll die with this pain in my chest, in my belly.
I’ll crumple at his feet and he won’t pick me up.
He won’t do much more than flick me a cool glance and move on.
“Because it’s better this way,” he says finally. “Because I’m your guardian and you’re my ward and this is fucking inappropriate.”
“Exactly,” I retort. “You’re my guardian. This is basically your job.”
“Yeah, what’s my job?”
“To take care of me,” I tell him. “To make things better for me.”
He clenches his jaw. “No. That’s not how I’m going to make things better for you. That’s nowhere in my job description.”
“But it could be,” I argue. “If that’s what I want.”
“You want to get fucked, is that it?”
He really shouldn’t say things like that if he wants me to stop talking.
If he wants me to not give him fuck-me eyes.
Because it’s not as if I haven’t thought about it. It’s not as if in my daydreams and thoughts about him giving me my first kiss, I haven’t also thought about him giving me my first fuck, him taking my virginity.
