Chapter 124
Elara
Of course I remembered. I'd done it countless times in my previous life, my fingers learning the exact pressure points, the specific movements that would ease his pain. My hands knew the routine even if my heart rebelled against it.
"I remember," I said quietly.
For a long moment, he just looked at me. Then: "Come here."
The command in his voice was unmistakable, layered with that same authority he used in boardrooms and family meetings. Every rational part of my brain screamed at me to refuse, to maintain the distance between us, to remember that nothing good came from getting too close to Julian Vane.
But I was already moving, my feet carrying me across the room before I could override the impulse. I stopped beside his chair, close enough to see the fine tremor in his hands, the tight lines of pain bracketing his mouth.
"Sit," he said, gesturing weakly to the ottoman.
I lowered myself onto it, bringing us eye to eye. This close, I could see every detail—the flecks of gold in his dark irises, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils were slightly dilated with pain. The firelight played across his features, softening the harsh angles into something almost vulnerable.
"You remember what to do?" he asked, his voice rough.
I nodded. My hands knew the routine even if my heart protested. The specific pressure points at his temples, the gentle circles at the base of his skull, the way to coax his muscles into releasing their death grip.
"Then help me," he said quietly. And then, so softly I almost didn't hear it: "Please."
The please broke something in me. Julian Vane commanded, demanded, took what he wanted without asking permission. But here, in the darkness of this room with pain splitting his skull and his engagement party waiting outside, he was asking.
I shifted position, moving to stand behind his chair. My fingers found his temples, and I began the familiar routine—gentle pressure in small circles, gradually increasing as I felt the tension in his muscles. He made a sound low in his throat, something between relief and pain, and let his head fall back.
We stayed like that for several minutes, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and Julian's gradually evening breathing. My fingers moved of their own accord, tracing patterns I'd memorized years ago, finding the knots of tension in his neck and shoulders. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex—this quiet care, this knowledge of his body's needs, this unspoken trust that I wouldn't hurt him while he was vulnerable.
"That's better," he murmured after a while. "Still works. You always could make them go away."
I didn't respond. What could I say? That I'd spent hours learning this because I'd wanted to be useful to him? That I'd practiced until my own hands cramped because his comfort had mattered more than my own? All of it felt pathetic now, evidence of how thoroughly I'd subjugated myself to his needs.
My hands moved lower, working the tight muscles at the base of his skull. Julian's breathing had deepened, his body relaxing under my touch in a way that made my chest ache. This was the Julian I'd fallen for—the one who let his guard down, who showed vulnerability, who seemed to need me.
But that Julian had never really existed, had he? He was a fantasy I'd constructed from moments like these, carefully curated instances of intimacy that I'd mistaken for love.
"Elara." His hand came up suddenly, catching my wrist mid-motion. The grip was gentle but firm, stopping my movements. "Stop."
I froze, confused. "Does it hurt? Am I pressing too hard?"
"No." He pulled gently on my wrist, drawing me forward. "Just—stop for a second."
I lost my balance, stumbling forward as he pulled. My hands flew out to catch myself, landing on his shoulders. And then somehow I was bent over him, my body pressed against his back, his hand still wrapped around my wrist.
"Elara." He said my name like a prayer, like a curse. "Last night... it wasn't a mistake. I meant what I said. All of it."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, could smell his cologne mixing with whiskey and wood smoke. The memories of last night crashed over me—his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the way he'd looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Julian, let me go—"
"I can't." His voice was rough, almost desperate. "I can't let you go. Don't you understand that? I've tried. God knows I've tried. But I can't—"
Footsteps in the hallway again. Lighter this time, accompanied by the soft clink of china.
"Mr. Julian Vane?" A woman's voice—Lucy, probably, with the headache remedy. "Mr. Vane asked me to bring you this."
I jerked back, stumbling away from Julian's chair. My face burned with humiliation and something darker, something I didn't want to name. What was I doing? What were we doing?
Julian's hand fell away from my wrist. He looked stunned, almost stricken, as if he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
"Just—" His voice was hoarse. "Just leave it outside the door, Lucy. Thank you."
"Of course, sir."
The sound of a tray being set down, then retreating footsteps. But I was already backing toward the door, my hands shaking, my vision blurring with unshed tears.
I was nothing. That's what this proved. I was nothing but a convenient outlet for his stress, someone to massage away his headaches and warm his bed when his perfect fiancée wasn't available. I was the secret he kept in the shadows, the truth he'd never acknowledge in the light.
"I have to go," I said, my voice flat and dead.
"Elara, wait—" Julian stood, reaching for me.
"No." I held up a hand, stopping him. "No more. I'm done."
"You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me!" The words burst out, sharp and desperate. "Explain how this is supposed to work, Julian. Because I don't understand. I don't understand how you can touch me like that, look at me like that, and then go out there and cut a cake with your pregnant fiancée."
He opened his mouth, closed it. The silence was answer enough.
"That's what I thought." I reached for the door handle, my hand trembling. "I was wrong to come here. Wrong to think—" My voice broke. "It doesn't matter what I thought. You've made your choice. You made it a long time ago, and it was never going to be me."
"That's not true—" He stood up. "Elara, stay."
I turned and opened the door, stepping out into the hallway before he could stop me. Behind me, I heard him call my name, heard the desperation in his voice. But I didn't turn back. I couldn't. If I looked at him again, if I let myself hope for even one more second, it would destroy me completely.