THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FOUR

The smoke stung my throat as I stumbled into the open courtyard, coughing so hard my lungs ached. My vision blurred. The night air should’ve brought relief, but it carried the acrid bite of something ruined—wood, varnish, fabric. My pulse thudded in my ears, louder than the high-pitched shriek of the estate’s alarm system.

I turned, squinting through the haze. Security swarmed around the west wing like hornets disturbed. Radios crackled. Boots pounded. Somewhere in the distance, water hissed against flame. But no one noticed me—alone, dazed, shaking on the flagstone path like a ghost.

Then suddenly—arms. Strong and unrelenting.

“Catrina.”

His voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Wesley’s hands were on me, moving quickly—gripping my arms, turning me toward the light to check my face, my legs. His fingers brushed my wrist, searching for a pulse he didn’t ask for. He didn’t ask anything—not at first.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out but a cough.

His jaw was set tight, so tight it looked painful. His shirt was half-buttoned, wrinkled, dusted faintly with soot. He smelled like cologne and something sharper—gunpowder, maybe. Or the kind of rage that sits too still to be safe.

Then came the question.

“Who was with you?”

I blinked at him, disoriented. “No one.”

Something changed in his face—not big. Not obvious. But I saw it. The shift behind his eyes, like a quiet detonation. He didn’t yell. Didn’t even move.

He just looked away for a second. Breathed in through his nose. Held it.

And exhaled like he was fighting not to break something.

That was worse than shouting.

“I’m fine,” I rasped, half hoping he’d believe me. “It wasn’t—”

Wesley moved fast.

One arm hooked behind my knees, the other under my back. He lifted me like I weighed nothing.

“Put me down,” I snapped, too breathless to sound firm. “I can walk—”

“You’re covered in ash,” he said. His voice was too calm. Too cold. “Your lungs are irritated. And you’re still shaking.”

“I’m not—”

He didn’t even look at me as he carried me across the courtyard, the warm scent of him clashing with the acrid reek still clinging to my hair and skin.

“Wesley, I’m not broken,” I hissed.

“You’re also not bulletproof,” he said without missing a step.

The estate blurred past us—columns, hedges, light spilling from windows like yellow eyes watching. His arms were solid. Grounded. But it felt like being carried inside a cage.

I hated that I didn’t hate it.

He kicked open the main doors. Someone tried to speak to him—one of the guards—but he ignored them entirely, heading straight for the central wing with singular focus.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to ask him why he wasn’t angry. Why he hadn’t exploded. Why I felt safer in his arms than I had in days, even while he radiated fury like static electricity.

Instead, I let my head fall against his shoulder, too tired to fight.

His breath stirred my hair. Just one word. Almost too soft to hear.

“You should’ve screamed.”

I tilted my face up to him, confused.

He looked down, eyes colder than the smoke-stained air. “I would’ve burned the whole damn house down for you.”

The door shut behind us with a quiet finality, sealing out the alarms, the voices, the world.

Wesley carried me into his bathroom like I was made of glass, then set me gently on the edge of the marble counter. The space was pristine, all cold stone and warm lighting, silent but for the echo of our breathing.

He didn’t speak.

Just rolled his sleeves up to the elbows and ran a cloth under cold water, twisting it tight until it dripped. The sound echoed like a slow clock ticking. I watched the muscles in his forearms shift beneath his skin—tense, precise.

He turned toward me and raised the cloth.

“I can do it myself,” I murmured.

He ignored me.

The cloth was cool against my face, a jolt of relief against the heat lingering on my cheeks. Wesley wiped carefully, gently. Over my temple. My jaw. Down the side of my neck. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth.

Our eyes met in the mirror above the sink.

His were steady. Burning.

I looked away, but his voice caught me mid-turn. Low. Firm.

“You smell like smoke.”

I gave a small, hollow laugh. “Chanel’s newest line—Arson No. 5.”

His expression didn’t shift.

Of course he wasn’t in the mood for jokes. I bit the inside of my cheek, the levity dying in my throat.

He set the cloth aside and picked up another. Ran it over my hands—pausing when he saw the raw spot on my palm where I’d scraped it grabbing the bench. He didn’t ask what happened. Just pressed the cool cloth there until it stopped stinging.

Finally, he spoke. “What happened?”

I looked down at my knees. “There was smoke. In the west wing.”

“Why were you alone?”

I shrugged. “I needed space.”

“Why were you even in that part of the house?”

“I like the piano.”

He was silent for a beat too long.

I could feel it—him watching me. Measuring every pause, every lie I didn’t quite tell.

He didn’t push. But that didn’t mean he believed me.

Wesley leaned forward and brushed a lock of hair from my face. His hand lingered near my cheek, then dropped. But not before I noticed.

His fingers trembled. Just slightly. A tremor so small, I almost convinced myself I imagined it.

Not from fear.

From restraint.

“You think I’m the enemy,” he said quietly.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just looked at him—at the man who had carried me through fire without flinching, who had stayed cold instead of cruel, who now stared at me like I was the most dangerous thing in the room.

“I’m the only thing standing between you and him,” he said.

His voice wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a warning. It was something simpler. Darker. Honest.

I swallowed. My throat was raw.

He stepped back just enough to give me space to breathe. But not enough to feel safe.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Smoke-smudged, shaken. Unrecognizable.

Maybe he was right.

And that terrified me more than the fire.

Wesley’s bedroom was dark when he opened the door—no lights, just the faint ambient glow from the city filtering through the high, sheer-draped windows. Same room. Same untouched minimalism. The same crisp air, like no one ever truly slept here.

He left me standing in the doorway.

Without a word, he crossed to the liquor cabinet in the corner and poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass. The amber caught the light as he moved—steady, deliberate. Like nothing had just happened.

I didn’t move. The last time I’d been in this room, I’d been naked beneath him, his mouth on my throat, his voice at my ear like a brand. Then he'd gone cold. Shut down. Locked away whatever that night had been.

“I’m fine, you know,” I said quietly.

He didn’t turn around.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he said. His tone wasn’t sharp. But it wasn’t open for negotiation, either.

I bristled. “You don’t get to decide that.”

He turned, slowly, one glass in each hand.

“You’re right,” Wesley said. “But from now on, you don’t sleep anywhere but here.”

The words dropped like lead.

I stiffened. “You can’t just—”

“I can.” He took a step forward. “And I will.”

The glass in his left hand extended toward me. I didn’t take it.

“That sounds a lot like ownership,” I said flatly.

He raised an eyebrow. “No. If I owned you, you wouldn’t be standing in smoke right now.”

That landed harder than it should have.

He took another step, enough that I could smell the whiskey and faint trace of gunpowder on him. He didn’t touch me—but he didn’t have to. His presence always filled the space first.

Wesley gently pressed the glass into my hand. Our fingers brushed. Heat flared. I told myself it was the liquor.

“You can sleep in the bed,” he said, turning toward the wide leather chair in the corner. “I’ll take that.”

He was giving me space. On his terms. Drawing a line, but not crossing it.

I stared down at the drink in my hand. My pulse felt loud in my ears.

“So I’m your hostage now?” I muttered.

Wesley didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He just sat down in the chair and leaned back, whiskey in hand, ankles crossed, gaze unreadable.

I stood there too long. Then, slowly, I stepped inside.

I slipped off my shoes one at a time, letting them drop to the rug with soft, final thuds. The silence between us stretched taut. I sat down on the edge of the bed.

Not facing him. Not retreating either.

His voice, low, cut through the stillness. “You don’t have to trust me. But you do need to stay alive.”

I turned my head, just enough to meet his eyes across the room.

The shadows carved sharp angles into his face. But the whiskey glass in his hand trembled.

Just slightly.

And I knew—he wasn’t afraid of Marco.

He was afraid of what losing me might turn him into.