Chapter 187

Chapter 187
Elena

I watched Étienne retrieve an overnight bag from the trunk—compact, leather, obscenely expensive-looking. For someone who maintained three walk-in closets at the estate, this seemed almost comically minimal.

"That's all you brought?"

He glanced at the bag, then back at me, and I caught the ghost of a smile. "Emergency supplies only. My mother will manufacture an excuse to send someone with 'seasonal clothing' within forty-eight hours." The smile turned wry. "Along with a carefully selected emissary to discuss my recent life choices."

The mention of Isabelle should have worried me more, but right now all I could think about was getting inside. Getting him inside. Closing the door on the rest of the world and whatever judgment it wanted to pass on us.

I punched in my apartment code—the same one I'd been using since I moved in, though I'd bet anything Étienne had memorized it within the first week. He knew everything about me. The realization should have felt invasive, but instead it just made me feel... seen. Known in a way I'd never been before.

"I need to shower," I said, suddenly aware of how I must look—training clothes damp with sweat, hair escaping its elastic. Not exactly the image I wanted for whatever this night was going to become. "I'll just be a few minutes."

"Take your time." His voice gave nothing away, but I caught the way his eyes tracked me as I moved past him, the careful distance he maintained even as I felt the pull between us like a physical thing.

The shower was scalding, and I stood under the spray trying to calm my racing thoughts. My skin felt too tight, every nerve ending aware that Étienne was just on the other side of the wall, in my space, staying the night. This was happening. We were doing this. Whatever this was.

I took longer than necessary, conditioning my hair twice, shaving everywhere even though no one was going to see—except maybe they would? God, I didn't know what I was doing. I'd never felt this way with Maxime, this electric anticipation mixed with bone-deep certainty.

When I finally emerged, wrapped in the ivory silk robe Étienne had given me last Christmas, my skin was pink from the heat and my hair hung damp down my back. I caught my reflection in the mirror and barely recognized myself—eyes too bright, lips parted, looking like I was walking toward something inevitable.

I found him in the kitchen with his back to me, sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms I'd spent an embarrassing amount of time noticing. He was working the citrus press with those precise, controlled movements that characterized everything he did, and I felt something low in my stomach tighten at the flex of muscle beneath his skin.

For a moment I just stood there, drinking in the sight of him in my space. It felt transgressive somehow, seeing this man who belonged to marble hallways and boardrooms standing in my tiny kitchen, making me fresh juice like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His phone rang, shattering the moment. I watched his shoulders tense as he glanced at the screen. Maman.

"Bonsoir, Maman." His tone was perfectly neutral in that way that meant he was furious.

I couldn't hear Isabelle's end, but I could imagine it—the carefully worded questions, the gentle but insistent pressure.

"I understand your concern. However, I've made my decision. I won't be returning to the estate for the foreseeable future."

A pause. His knuckles went white on the counter edge. Something in my chest expanded at the sight—he was choosing this. Choosing me. Choosing to stay even when it would be easier to leave.

"That's not necessary. I'm perfectly capable of managing my own arrangements." Another pause. "I appreciate the offer, but no. This is not a discussion we're going to have right now. I'll call you tomorrow."

He ended the call without the usual pleasantries, setting the phone down harder than necessary. For a long moment he just stood there, and I found myself moving toward him without thinking, drawn by some magnetic pull I'd stopped trying to resist.

The silk whispered against my skin as I crossed the kitchen, and I was suddenly, acutely aware that I was wearing nothing but this robe and the knowledge that he'd given it to me. That he'd thought about what I'd look like in it when he'd chosen it. The thought made heat bloom across my chest.

I saw the exact moment he became aware of my presence—the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his entire body went still like he was afraid any movement might break whatever spell we were under.

I didn't let myself think. I just moved behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against the warm cotton of his shirt. I could feel his heart hammering against my palms, could smell that combination of cedar and something uniquely him that I'd been breathing in for years without letting myself acknowledge what it did to me.

He went rigid, every muscle turning to stone. I felt the mechanical precision of his movements as he set down the citrus press, and I wondered if he was as terrified as I was. If his heart was racing the same way mine was.

"Your back is very broad," I heard myself say against his shirt, my voice coming out softer than I'd intended. "It feels safe, holding onto you like this."

His hands stilled completely on the counter. I counted three of his heartbeats—fast, so fast—before he carefully, deliberately set down the juicer.

I moved around to face him, suddenly emboldened by the way he was looking at me—like I was something precious and dangerous all at once. The glass of fresh grapefruit juice sat on the counter between us, and I picked it up, took a sip. The tart sweetness burst across my tongue, and I watched his eyes track the movement of my throat as I swallowed.

"Your arms are so strong," I continued, setting the glass down and reaching out to touch his forearm. The fabric of his shirt was soft under my fingers, but I could feel the solid muscle beneath, the visible veins standing out in sharp relief. I'd noticed them before, of course. I'd noticed everything about him. But touching was different. Touching was permission. "I can see them moving here. The veins."

I traced one with my fingertip, following its path from his wrist toward his elbow, and felt the tremor that ran through him at the contact. The knowledge that I could affect him this way, that I had this power over someone so controlled, made something fierce and possessive rise in my chest.

"You're shaking," I observed, looking up to meet his eyes.

His voice was barely above a whisper. "Because of you."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with everything we'd been dancing around for months, maybe years. My heart was doing something complicated in my chest—not the anxious racing I'd felt with Maxime, but something slower, deeper, like my body was trying to memorize this moment.

I should have stepped back. Should have acknowledged the danger of this moment. Instead, I found myself swaying closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence, by the way he was looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Drink your juice first," he said, his voice rough but still trying for that careful authority. "You need the electrolytes."