Chapter 330

Vivienne

"Not for a single moment do I regret it, Daphne."

The words hang between us, heavy with truth.

I lean forward and kiss her.

It’s like breathing after drowning—that first desperate gasp when you break the surface, the way your lungs ache with the relief of it. Her lips are soft and warm and familiar in a way that makes no sense and every sense at once.

She kisses me back like I’m the answer to a question she’s been asking for centuries.

Her hands find my waist, pulling me closer. Mine tangle in her hair, holding on like she might disappear if I let go.

The world narrows to this—her mouth on mine, her body against me, the soft sounds she makes that I swallow greedily.

I fall to my back.

She follows, still kissing me, never breaking contact. The weight of her is perfect, grounding and exhilarating all at once. I don’t know how long we stay like that.

Minutes? Hours? Time loses meaning when she’s this close.

Her hand moves underneath my nightdress, sliding up my waist. The skin-to-skin contact makes me gasp,then whimper with joy.

I don’t know what to do. My mind is a jumbled mess of lust and longing, thoughts scattered and incoherent. All I know is that I want more. More of her touch. More of her heat. More of her everything.

I arch into her hand, pressing myself against her, seeking more contact, more friction, more of the exquisite pleasure she’s offering.

She makes a sound against my mouth and her hand continues its journey, moving upward to my chest.

Her fingers find me, and sometimes I think my brain exaggerated the emotions I felt that night at the hotel. That three days of pleasure couldn’t possibly have been as consuming as I remember.

Turns out it wasn’t an exaggeration at all.

She doesn’t stop kissing me. Her mouth is relentless, claiming, and I think I could die like this. Happily. Completely.

I’m sad I can’t smell her pheromones the suppressants dull everything, keep me level, keep me safe. But I’m also glad. Because this feeling, this want, this desperate aching need for her,it’s all mine.

No biology driving it. No Alpha-Omega pull. Just her. Just me. Just us.

Then she sits up.

Pulls away.

I nearly cry out at the loss.

"We can’t go any further." Her voice is rough, unsteady.

"What?" The panic hits immediately, cold and sharp. "No. Daphne—"

"I mean." She cups my face, thumb tracing my bottom lip. "Let’s make a plan."

"A plan?"

"A plan." She leans down, kisses the corner of my mouth. "As thrilling as the idea of us being caught is, I don’t want my mind divided in two when I’m with you." Another kiss, this time on my lips, soft and brief.

"I want to be able to focus on you. Only you. Without listening for footsteps. Without worrying about doors."

She pulls back, and I fall back against the pillows, breathless.

I have to make a decision.

The question hangs between us, unspoken but present. How much longer can we keep doing this? Sneaking around, stealing moments, pretending in front of everyone else?

*

My favorite pastime is watching Daphne paint.

She gets so immersed—completely lost in whatever world she’s creating on canvas. Her brow furrows in concentration. Her lips part slightly. Her hand moves in confident, sweeping strokes that seem almost unconscious, like the brush knows where to go without her telling it.

It’s mesmerizing.

And... it feels like déjà vu.

No, of course it does. How many times have I sat here to watch her on her balcony paint? A dozen? Two dozen? I’ve lost count. But this is different. This is a deeper déjà vu, the kind that settles in your bones. Like I’ve done this a hundred times. A thousand times.

Like I’ve been watching her paint for decades.

The thought should be strange. It should unsettle me. Instead, it makes me feel at ease. Like settling into a warm bath. Like coming home.

The sun catches her hair, turning the dark strands golden at the edges. She’s so focused she doesn’t notice me watching or pretends not to, which is part of our quiet game.

The wind blows, carrying the scent of pigment from her balcony to where I’m sitting in the garden below.

It really does smell like her pheromones—or maybe her pheromones smell like paint. I can never tell which.

She’s so pretty. So perfect.

I hug my knees to my chest, just watching. Her shoulders relax as she works.

I could watch her forever.

The thought doesn’t scare me anymore.

Unfortunately, a dark shadow interrupts my favorite show.

Standing in front of me, blocking the view of the love of my life, is my fiancé.

"I need to talk to you." Damien’s voice is tight, controlled.

"Okay."

"In private." 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

"What about?"

He looks up at the balcony. Daphne is still immersed in her painting, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes, completely oblivious.

"Not here." His voice is tight.

I roll my eyes. It’s not like Daphne has super hearing. But I stand anyway, smoothing my skirt, irritation prickling under my skin. He slides open the garden door, and I follow him into the house.

I send one last look back at Daphne who is still painting, like a child being taken away from her favorite toy.

I follow Damien through the halls, past the sitting room, past the stairs, until we reach his room.

He walks behind me. The door clicks shut.

The sound echoes in the silence.

"So." I keep my voice light. "What’s so important it couldn’t wait until after I finished enjoying the afternoon?"

He doesn’t answer.

I turn.

He’s standing with his back against the door, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can’t read. Not angry. Not cold. Something else.

"Close the curtains," he says.

"What?"

"The curtains. Close them."

I stare at him. "Why?"

"Because I don’t want anyone seeing in." His voice is flat. "Is that a problem?"

Something cold settles in my stomach. "Damien, what is this about?"

He doesn’t move. Just watches me with those dark eyes—so like Daphne’s, and yet nothing like hers at all.

"Close the curtains, Vivienne."