Chapter 33 Are you okay, honey?
Holland broke the surface of the water in a sudden breath, her head tilting back as droplets slid down her face. She dragged her hands over her skin, rubbing the water from her eyes, smoothing her palms along her cheeks before pushing her hair back. The wet strands clung to her scalp, heavy and slick, cascading over her shoulders, leaving rivulets that ran down her collarbone and arms. Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, each inhale pulling tension deeper into her ribs before exhaling slowly, only to draw it in again. She sank back against the cool marble, letting her spine press against the hard edge, but the contact offered no relief. It never did.
Her lungs struggled for rhythm, pulling air in jagged pulls that caught on something she could not name. She closed her eyes, letting the drip of water from the faucet echo through the room, a constant, patient rhythm that did nothing to soothe her thoughts. The bath’s warmth curled around her body like a soft cage, heavy and suffocating, wrapping her in its silence. She had come here seeking release, comfort, a moment away from everything else—but instead, it felt like the room itself was pressing against her chest, closing in, reminding her of every rule she had broken, every boundary she had ignored.
Twice.
The word came in small, quiet pulses with each exhale, whispering itself into her mind like a knife turning slowly. Twice. Twice she had kissed Camille Lustrelle. Twice she had let it happen. She could not scrub the memory from her skin. She could not wash it away, no matter how hard her hands pushed through the water or how fiercely she pressed her palms to her face.
The first time had been a blur, a stolen instant she had tried to rationalize into nothingness. A slip. An accident. Camille had been too fast, too bold, and Holland had been too slow, too unaware, to stop the inevitability of it. She had told herself it was taken from her, that it did not count, that it was a moment removed from reality, a fevered shadow she could ignore. But it had mattered. It had burned.
And two days later, when Camille returned with that gaze, reckless, daring, unflinching, when words had sharpened into touch and defiance had taken form in every movement, Holland had faltered. She hadn’t pulled back. She hadn’t turned away. She hadn’t frozen, hadn’t built a wall of cold precision to stop the inevitable. She had answered fire with fire, lips pressing against lips, a collision of want and hesitation, urgency and control, and for the first time, it had not been taken—it had been chosen.
It was choice. Her choice.
And the truth of it clawed through her, deeper than any reprimand she could ever issue, deeper than any rule she had followed, deeper than any control she thought she had mastered.
She had been fully aware the second time, fully conscious of every challenge in that daring, incendiary gaze. She had known every line she had built around herself, every warning she had tattooed into her own mind. And still, she had allowed it. She had allowed herself to collapse under the weight of her own desire, stripped of the armor she had spent years forging. She had answered, and in doing so, she had revealed herself: not the invulnerable chief, not the untouchable figure others admired, but a woman capable of want, of yielding, of surrendering to a fire she did not plan to ignite.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the tub, nails biting lightly into the cold marble as though the pain could tether her to the present. Why had she not pushed her away? Where had the carefully maintained armor gone when she needed it most? All weekend, she had recited the mantra in her mind like a prayer, a spell: put Camille in her place, draw the line, remind her who was in charge, reclaim the order she demanded. But when the girl had pressed against her, when those words had burned with life, Holland had faltered.
Not Camille.
Holland.
She had prided herself on restraint, on wisdom, on being untouchable. Every decision, every glance, every carefully measured pause in conversation, she had built herself into a figure of composure, of precision, of disciplined control. Others had looked to her and seen order, a life sculpted with deliberate care. That was who she was. That was what she had created.
And yet, in the span of a single kiss, she had unraveled herself.
She had lost the strength she kept like a shield, the control that shaped every step, every breath. Her discipline, the cornerstone of her existence, had melted beneath the heat of defiance and desire. She had faltered. She had given herself over to something she had fought for decades to avoid.
Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding softly against each other, the noise swallowed by the gentle lap of water around her. Her chest rose and fell in uneven motions, each breath scraping against the edges of restraint. Fingers drummed against the tub rim, slipping beneath the surface to stir the water into restless ripples that fractured the reflection of her own face. The longer she sat there, the heavier the memory became: the taste of Camille’s lips, the press of her body, the heat that clung to Holland’s skin, searing itself into muscle and nerve.
What had she been thinking?
Her shoulders shifted, pressing against the marble wall, restless and unable to settle into the false comfort she had sought when she first stepped into the bath. The water that had initially offered warmth now seemed too close, too insistent, suffocating in its proximity. She dragged a wet hand down her face, slicking her hair back, nails scraping her scalp, trying in vain to erase the weight of thought. But it remained, heavier than the water around her, heavier than the bath itself.
And then the sound came.
A knock, faint at first, almost hesitant, then deliberate enough to make her flinch.
Holland froze, her chest tightening. Droplets ran down her cheeks and shoulders, catching the overhead light and leaving trails of moisture that shone like fragile glass. Her hand paused midair, dripping, every nerve on edge. The warmth that had held her just seconds before had fled, leaving only the echoing tension of the room and the pounding of her pulse in her ears.
Her eyes snapped open, scanning the door, searching the shadows for the source. Another knock followed, heavier, more insistent. Her fingers gripped the edge of the tub again, knuckles blanching, nails biting into marble as she held herself still. The intrusion, simple and human, cut into the sanctuary she had built around herself, shattering the fragile shield she had wrapped around desire, thought, and privacy.
“Honey?” a voice called through the door, carrying warmth that grated against her senses, uninvited and unwelcome. Holland recognized it instantly, each syllable pressing against the tension that had already coiled in her chest. It was familiar, it was intrusive, it was him.
The sound twisted something inside her, a flash of irritation sparking, spreading through her chest, crawling up her neck and settling behind her eyes. The anger was raw, pure, and instant. He had no right, she reminded herself, to break this stillness, this carefully held space. The bath, her solitude, the silence—all of it had belonged to her, until now.
Her hand lingered beneath the water, fingers curled around the edge, clinging to something tangible in a world where her thoughts refused to settle. The room felt suddenly smaller, the ceiling lower, the walls closing in, pressing against the heat and tension that had accumulated over hours. Every droplet of water seemed to mirror the pulse in her chest, vibrating in the silence.
She drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, trying to center herself, but it barely touched the coil of fury and frustration she carried. The knock came again, harder, more urgent, and the voice followed, gentle but insistent:
“Honey, are you okay?”
Holland pressed her lips together, silent, her gaze flicking toward the door, aware of the intrusion but unwilling to answer. The tension in the room hung like a weight, the water’s warmth doing nothing to soften it, the silence pressing around her like the memory of her own choices, her own surrender.
And for a moment, she sat there, still as stone, chest rising and falling, hands gripping marble, mind spinning, pulse pounding, waiting, letting the knock echo through her alone.