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He lifted me out of the water then brought me back down, sliding my tightness over his thickness. We inched together until we were fully connected, followed by a quiet moan from both of us. With me pinned against the wall, he took me with the same slowness as the other night, our lips locked together, our slick bodies moving in perfect synchrony.
NINETEEN
CAMILLE
Like every other night, he came to my bedroom and made me scream his name. He gave me passion I hadn’t felt in years, probably ever. The marks on his back would remain for days, and the indent in his shoulder from my teeth would be there until he woke up the next morning. But as always, he dismissed himself when we were through.
“Cauldron.”
He pulled on his sweatpants then turned to face me, his eyes a bit sunken because he was tired from the long day of working and the long night of fucking.
“Stay.” I was naked on the bed, and as the sweat had evaporated, I grew cold, so I pulled the sheets to my chest and propped myself on my shoulder. My makeup was a mess and I should wash it off before bed, but I’d rather go straight to sleep—with him beside me.
He stared for three long seconds before he gave his answer. “No.”
I was stung and could barely hide it. “Why—”
“Because I don’t do that.”
My head snapped from the whiplash. I was the only person who made him feel less empty, but then he dismissed me so coldly anyway. “Why?”
He walked out without answering.
I continued to stare at the closed door as if he might come back, realize he was being an asshole and issue an apology, but then I remembered Cauldron wasn’t the kind of man to issue apologies. I didn’t recall getting one after he shot me.
I lay down and went to sleep—alone.
I knew he was having a bad day when I heard him yell from inside the house.
“If you don’t want the bag, I suggest you figure it out.”
The bag?
I sat at the table at the poolside. Hugo had just delivered my lunch, and not a single backhanded insult was uttered. He seemed distracted, like he was listening to his master’s heated conversation.
“Hugo!”
He lost control of the platter and nearly dropped it, but I helped him grab it. He didn’t issue a thank-you before he ran off. “Yes, Mr. Beaufort?”
Cauldron emerged onto the terrace, shirtless and in just his sweatpants. The only time I ever saw him get fully dressed was for company. He didn’t even wear shoes. There was something terrifying about watching him come at Hugo with swinging arms and tense shoulders. “We leave for Botswana first thing in the morning. Make all the arrangements.”
“Of course, Mr. Beaufort.” He hurried into the house, actually running. “Right away.”
Cauldron continued to the table, looking so angry it seemed as if everything was my fault. He dropped into the chair across from me and leaned back. His hands gripped the armrests, and he looked over his property as if he hated that too.
He was so sexy when he was angry, his hard jawline even harder, his dark eyes focused. His body was tighter too, all the muscles clenching so the lines that separated the different muscle groups were more distinct.
“I want to ask if everything’s okay, but I have a feeling you won’t respond.”
He continued to stare elsewhere as if he hadn’t heard me speak.
“Cauldron?”
His mind was so far away it was on a different planet.
I decided not to bother and ate my lunch.
He sat there, one elbow on the armrest, his fingers resting against his lips, his mind deep in thought.
Hugo emerged with a tray of food and set it in front of Cauldron. His meal was different from mine. While I had a veggie wrap with produce from the market and freshly made hummus with a cup of onion soup, Cauldron had a green salad with shrimp on top. He basically didn’t eat carbs, and I couldn’t think of a worse life than a keto one.
Once the scotch was on the table, he filled the glass and took a deep drink.
“What’s the bag?”
It must be important because his eyes immediately shifted to mine.
“It sounded like a threat when you were on the phone.”
“Because it is.”
“What does it mean?”
He considered the question for a long time before he grabbed his fork. “You don’t want to know, Camille.” He poured the tarragon dressing over the bed of lettuce and began to eat, elbows on the table, hunched over his food like a bear.
“Why did I ask, then?”
He took another bite before he directed his eyes on me. He chewed his food, debating his response. “I tie a plastic bag over someone’s head before I bind their wrists and ankles behind their back with zip ties. Then I watch them watch me as they suffocate and die.”
