Capricorn, page 10
“Healing takes time.”
16
The thing about time? It’s a tricky sorcerer of illusion, first crawling slow enough to bleed me dry before accelerating without warning. A full week passes before I muster the courage to end my hiatus and face the studio I abandoned.
I push the door open, and the air hints at neglect and musty spaces. Daylight streams through the tall windows, casting streaks across the bolts of fabric.
Highlighting the dust.
Exposing my prolonged failure.
Unfinished sketches fan across tables. Measuring tape lies tangled on the floor. A prototype still wears the skeleton of something I once believed in, the burgundy silk drooping from the shoulders, one side pinned, and the other trailing like blood.
Everything is exactly as I left it, and something about that hurts.
I bend down before the tears win and gather the scraps. My fingers shake at first, but the motion steadies as I sweep fabric shavings into my hand. I sort and stack, lining up scissors, putting away stray bobbins, returning fashion magazines to the shelves.
When I reach the far end, my fingers graze a roll of silk, its texture cool to the touch, the hue a vivid sea-blue.
Like Sebastian’s eyes.
I close my own and rest my palm on the fabric, fighting the ache. Willing myself not to break into a pile of fresh pieces. With measured breaths, I mentally chant three words until nothing’s left but static between my ears…
Healing takes time.
So I take the time, even though deep down, I fear I’ll never find that girl again—the one who dreams and creates and designs.
I start by doodling curved lines at my drawing table, pausing now and then to stare out the window. The skies are clear today, the sun’s bright rays encouraging a symphony of birds.
As I return to my doodling, I’m taken aback by the direction those lazy lines took. It almost looks like the beginning of a gown with a royal train.
For some reason, that makes me laugh.
Because if this archaic system is going to force me into a marriage, I might as well become the spectacle everyone’s expecting.
I’m still giggling like a deranged hyena, the vacant room mocking me, when the door creaks open again, softer this time.
The laughter dies in my chest.
Elise pauses on the threshold, bundled in a silver cardigan that strains at the buttons. Her figure is fuller now, with the baby’s arrival not far off.
“I wasn’t sure if I should knock.” The uncertainty in her features stings, because she’s usually so optimistic.
“You’re always welcome.”
She steps inside before shutting the door behind her. “I wanted to talk to you at the memorial, but…”
“No, it’s okay. I was a mess.” Truth is, I barely remember that afternoon, let alone picking out faces in the blur, even familiar ones.
“It’s good to see you working again,” she says, taking in the room. Grime clings to the corners, gathering near a trail of bobby pins and half-buried thread.
“I’m not sure I’d call what I’m doing working, but I’m trying.”
“It’s a good start.”
“How have you been?” I ask, nudging us in a safer direction. “How’s the baby?”
“I’m fine. Baby’s good.” She looks at me then with an unspoken intensity that says more than her words do. “How are you doing?”
“Better.” Though the answer catches in my throat. “As long as I focus on the present.”
She nods, choosing not to push, then sinks into the chair across from me with a small wince, one hand settling on her midsection. “How are things with Oliver? Is he treating you well?”
My gaze strays, and for a moment, it’s not Oliver’s shadow I recall, but the sound of his footsteps retreating. Just last night, his longing lingered in the air, heavy with need, while I tried to escape through sleep.
“Novalee?”
I return to the conversation, but she’s already leaning forward, spotting something I didn’t mean to stitch into my expression.
“He’s not hurting you, is he?”
“No, nothing like that. He’s…” I trail off, my pencil gliding into the silhouette of a plunging bodice that bares more than it hides. “He’s getting under my skin.”
Her brows lift over wide blue eyes. “How’s he getting under your skin?”
“In a physical way.”
Okay, not exactly physical, since he hasn’t even touched me.
But there’s a connection, tenuous as it is, born from loss and…something I can’t quite name.
He always seems confident and put together, dressed to make a statement, every I dotted and T crossed.
Until I spot him at his desk or on the treadmill, his feet pounding a steady rhythm.
It’s in those rare moments, when he doesn’t know I’m watching, that I sense the loneliness he doesn’t want me to see.
The pain he can never outrun.
Elise studies me with quiet fascination, her chin propped on her hand. “You like him.”
“I don’t know how I feel about him.” I set the pencil down and nudge it with my fingertip until it stops spinning. “But he’s treating me better than most.”
“After everything you’ve endured, you deserve someone who sees your worth.”
“They all see me as a transaction, Elise.”
She dips her head. “I know.”
I wave the heaviness away. “Enough of that. I’ve missed you.”
“Same,” she says. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be up for visitors again, but Landon had a meeting with Oliver today, so…”
“A meeting?” I sit up straighter. “What for?”
“It’s nothing bad,” she assures me, rubbing a protective hand over her belly. “Landon’s been following the paper trail of Jerome’s off-the-book dealings. Turns out, Oliver is his accountant.”
The illegal gambling party Jerome hosted during Ford’s month filters through my mind, and understanding clicks into place.
“So Landon’s still planning to take him down.” I arch a brow. “And Oliver’s helping him?”
“I think so.” Her tone drops a notch, more cautious now. “He hasn’t shared details, but if Oliver’s involved, there’s more to this than speculation. Landon wouldn’t bring him in unless he saw value.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Speaking of Oliver,” she says, shifting in her seat, “he’s planning a spa day for the two of us tomorrow. Facials, waxing, the whole deal.” Elise laughs softly. “Though I’m not sure how the tech will find my lady bits under this belly.”
That makes me smile.
And then I want to cry.
Of course Oliver wants me plucked and feathered for the perverts in his secret society.
The trip to the States is only days away, and the thought of getting on a plane again blasts me in the chest. Suddenly I’m choking on air.
I don’t know whether I’m panicking, crying, or both.
“Novalee?” Elise’s voice cuts through the noise as she rises with effort.
“Don’t get up,” I say, raising a hand. “I’m okay.”
But she ignores me, crosses the space with determination, and pulls me from my chair. Then she folds me into her arms, and as comfort tugs at my broken pieces, I fall apart again.
No warning or control.
Just the wreckage of grief breaking loose.
I cling to her, my shoulders shaking with each ragged sob.
“Oh, Novalee,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
We stand there for what feels like forever, her embrace rooting me to the present.
With a loud sniffle, I step back. “I didn’t mean to cry all over you.”
“I’m here for you, whether you need to laugh, cry, or scream.”
“I suppose a trip to the village is a good place to start, then we’ll go from there.”
Tomorrow won’t magically fix me, but maybe a spa day with Elise will be a step in the right direction…
A small reminder that life still exists beyond these circular walls.
17
The spa day leaves me glowing, my complexion as silken as moonlight on water. Despite Oliver’s hand in the arrangement, it was good to reconnect with Elise. Between pampering treatments, we talked about everything and nothing. I even surprised myself by laughing out loud when she said the baby moves like a trapped creature. Watching the kicks ripple across her belly, I couldn’t help but giggle.
For a little while, I almost felt like myself again.
But as I cross the threshold into the House of Capricorn, the glow from Elise’s presence fades, and whatever peace I gained vanishes under the weight of Landon’s dealings with Oliver.
The revelation that he’s Jerome’s accountant adds another twist to my already tangled feelings for Oliver Whitney.
Is he helping my brother take Jerome down? Or is he playing both sides? I pause in the sitting room and consider what I know about the man who taunts me every night with his voyeuristic tendencies.
His composure rarely slips, but it did when he told me about Talitha. In that moment, pain bled through the cool detachment he wears like armor.
Is it possible he’s an ally?
A shadow shifts in the kitchen doorway, drawing me from my thoughts, and I find him standing in the lit entrance. His gaze trails over my blond locks before landing on the shaped lines of my brows. I tuck a curled strand behind one ear, and his attention catches on the gleam of my polished nails.
“Exquisite color.”
I glance at the glossy paint, my ring glinting from the recessed lighting that keeps those paintings on display.
“The tech recommended it. She called it Scarlet Midnight.”
“I know.” He shoots me a secretive smile, and a flush spreads across my collarbone.
“Dinner’s waiting,” he adds, his tone carrying that edge of command I can never seem to resist.
As I step past him, he presses a hand to my lower back. That simple contact shouldn’t affect me like it does, but my body betrays me, and I lean into his touch without thinking.
We sit side by side this time. He’s taken the head of the table, and I’m to his right, no longer at the opposite end. Tonight’s dinner is pasta, tossed in a creamy sauce with grilled vegetables. I twirl a bite on my fork and bring it to my lips.
Loaded silence hangs between us. I’m acutely aware of all the things we don’t talk about—things that have been building in the dark for the past three weeks, even with a chaperone snoring nearby.
Astrid didn’t accompany me to the village today, which only highlights her absence now.
“Where’s the babysitter?”
“Dismissed,” he says, pouring two glasses of white wine.
“Dismissed as in…?”
“Gone for good.” He hands me a glass. “You’ve been behaving.”
I arch a disbelieving brow. “Have I, now?”
“Yes.” He unknots his tie and pulls it free, right at the dinner table. “You returned to your studio yesterday, and today, you went to the spa with Elise. I’m proud of you.”
There’s an unmistakable note of innuendo in his voice, despite his words masquerading as concern for my mental health.
He holds my stare, drops his tie to the floor, and I know I’m right. Awareness needles under my skin, while butterflies dance a wild rhythm in my stomach.
I tip my head back and gulp down the wine, because without Astrid shadowing my every move…it’s just him and me now.
“How was the spa?” he asks, spearing a broccoli floret.
“Good.” I lift a shoulder, feigning casual before aiming for his jugular. “The tech waxed my pussy bare.”
He pauses with the fork in his mouth, then slowly slides it out and chews.
But his non-reaction is not enough, so I push harder.
“My skin is so velvety now. Makes me want to touch myself.” I drag a fingertip up my arm, attracting his roving eye.
He refills my glass before taking a leisurely sip of his own.
God, this man makes me want to scream.
Fighting the urge to throw my drink in his face—because that would be unhinged, even for me—I go for direct instead. “Did you have ulterior motives for sending me to the spa?”
“I might have.”
“Such as?” I already know, but I want to hear him admit it.
“You’re an intelligent woman, so why don’t you give me your theory?”
“I think you wanted me polished and groomed for your perverted friends abroad.”
He sets his fork down, a deliberate preamble. “So tell me, Novalee. Are you ready now?”
Silence lands between us, stretching taut. This is about more than his travel plans.
He’s going to make his move tonight.
The certainty settles deep in my bones, ratcheting my heartbeat as he devours me with his eyes, saying nothing and everything, all at once.
I take another long swig from my glass and let the buzz carry me through the rest of dinner, arousal pulsing a relentless drumbeat at my core.
Every second heightens it, reminding me of all the nights I’ve forced myself to fall asleep with wet, aching need pooling between my thighs.
When he finally pushes back from the table, showing off the hard cut of his torso beneath his dress shirt, I expect…
More.
“I have some work to finish,” he says, his gaze burning with an intensity that contradicts his nonchalant tone. “Won’t take more than an hour. I’ll see you soon.”
He walks away with a confidence that borders on smug. Why do I get the feeling he’s already orchestrated the next move?
Five minutes later, in the privacy of my quarters, I understand why.
Lingerie drapes the foot of my bed, bold in maroon and tasteful in design, despite its wicked intent. Lace lines the cups, each one teasing with a peekaboo slit that leaves nothing to the imagination. A sheer skirt parts down the front, inviting quick access.
And the panties?
There are none.
Does he want me bare for my hands…or his?
I slip on the babydoll number, and anticipation thrums where I’m still tender from the wax. The bedtime ritual waits like a path I’ve walked too many times.
After three weeks of edging under his illicit stare, I ache to take the next step.
Crossing into my bathroom on unsteady feet, I go through the motions of my nightly skin routine before returning to the bedroom.
But I don’t pull back the covers—not with the fireplace painting the room in pale amber rose, its heat licking at my exposed skin. Instead, I climb onto the mattress and sink into the pillows, my desire simmering in my belly, banked like embers.
My nipples tighten through the lace-cut slits, and I roll them between my fingers, nails freshly polished to match the sultry hue of my lingerie. Stretching out my limbs, I let the sheer skirt fall open.
And that’s how I wait for the sound of his approach, fingertips veiling the peaks of my breasts, legs pressed together to obscure the view of my pussy.
He doesn’t keep me waiting long.
Oliver’s silhouette fills the doorway, and my breath catches as his molten gaze drags over every inch of me. Something flares in his expression.
Appreciation?
Or a craving that torments?
I meet him head-on, part my thighs, and offer what he hasn’t seen since I entered this house.
It’s a provocation.
An undeniable dare.
A demand for action.
And yet, a twitch of his jaw is all I get. Gritting my teeth, I slide my fingers through the slick folds of my pussy and let a moan break free.
Loud.
Needy.
Frustrated.
I’m wearing the lingerie he chose, putting everything on display, no sheets, no shame. And yet…
He still doesn’t move.
Will he ever?
“Oliver.” His name escapes in a plea, cloaked in seduction, floating on the air like a siren’s lure.
As if absorbing the impact of my voice, he sucks in a ragged breath and starts toward me, each step a release of restraint. By the time he reaches the bed and crawls over me, hovering but not touching, his loose shirt grazing my nipples, I’m ready to fly apart.
A hoarse whimper rasps out of me.
“Don’t come yet.” He takes me by the chin.
The air between us crackles, and another groan spills free.
He pushes a finger past my lips. “Suck.”
“Mmm.” I envelop him in the eager seal of my mouth.
“Match this pace,” he commands, withdrawing, then pressing back in. “Not faster. Not slower. I want you right on the edge.”
I hum around his salty skin, following his rhythm with trembling focus as I rub myself in tandem.
Oliver shifts, bracing an elbow on the mattress.
“Wider,” he says, deepening the motion, adding another digit.
I stretch my jaw for him, and he smirks.
“Both your mouth and your legs.”
So I spread even more.
“Yes, that’s it. Let the air ground you. Let it be the one thing that holds you in check.”
But I’m not sure I can control myself with him so close. His commands direct every aspect of this show, and I’m an actress under his tutelage.
“You’re doing so well. Now push your finger into that pretty cunt. I want to hear how wet you are.”
I work a single digit into my tight, slick walls. Need builds as my thumb drifts back to my nub.
“No more clit.” His fingers thrust into my throat, triggering a gag that rips my focus away. “You’re too close.”
Unbidden, my groan turns guttural, but the edge stays out of reach, held at bay by Oliver’s maddening pace.
He’s the master of patience, demanding I surrender with every slow stroke against my tongue. So when he suddenly yanks my wrist away and sucks my soaked fingers into his mouth, I’m caught off guard.
“Mmm, you taste incredible.” He guides my hand between my thighs again. “What do you want, Novalee?”
