19. Freya

19

Freya

H enry leaned back in his chair, shuffling the cards with a practiced ease that made my stomach twist. I tried to ignore the heat creeping up my neck and focus on the game. His broad shoulders and rippling muscles were impossible to miss, especially now that he sat there without a shirt. The muscles in his arms flexed with every movement, drawing my gaze against my will.

"Ready for the last round?" His voice broke through my thoughts, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Deal," I said, trying to sound confident. The fabric of the chair pressed against my bare thighs, reminding me just how much I'd already lost.

He dealt the cards swiftly, each one landing in front of me like a taunt. I glanced at my hand—nothing special. Still, I'd learned not to underestimate myself.

"Your move," he prompted.

I tossed in two cards, hoping for something better. Henry raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He exchanged one card and watched me with those piercing eyes that seemed to see right through me.

The silence stretched as we studied our hands. I forced myself to focus on the cards instead of the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

Focus, Freya , I scolded myself.

"Showtime," Henry announced, laying down his cards with a flourish—three of a kind.

My heart skipped a beat. I looked down at my hand and smiled. "Full house," I declared, spreading out my cards on the table.

Henry's eyes widened slightly before he chuckled. "Looks like you got me this time."

Relief washed over me as he reached for his belt buckle. He hesitated for a moment, then undid it with a smooth motion, sliding off his pants and leaving him in just his boxers. He didn't seem embarrassed at all—if anything; he looked even more confident.

I took a deep breath and leaned back in my chair, savoring the small victory. The game had shifted in my favor for now, but I knew better than to let my guard down around Henry.

"I win," I said, unable to keep the triumph out of my voice.

Henry smiled sardonically. "So you did."

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "I get you any way I want you," I reminded him, savoring the power shift.

"And how do you want me?" he asked, his tone both challenging and curious.

I pressed my index finger against my chin, pretending to think deeply. "I suppose on an airplane and out of the country is too much to hope for?"

He gave me a look that could have melted steel. The intensity in his eyes made my heart race, but I held his gaze, refusing to back down.

"I'll think about it," I said after a moment, my voice steady. "And then I'll let you know."

Henry stood up, moving around the table with a predator's grace. He stopped just inches from me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Take your time," he murmured, his breath ghosting over my cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

The air between us crackled with tension. It was as if the whole world had narrowed down to this moment, this standoff between us. My pulse thrummed in my ears, loud and insistent.

I swallowed hard and pushed back from the table, needing some space to breathe. As I moved away, Henry watched me with that same inscrutable expression. His confidence was infuriating and intoxicating all at once.

Turning my back on him, I walked to the window and stared out at the sprawling estate below. The grounds looked serene in the twilight.

"Do you always play games like this?" I asked without looking back at him.

"Only when there's something worth winning," he replied smoothly.

I clenched my fists at my sides. His words were a reminder of how high the stakes had become between us—more than just a card game now.

"Well," I said finally, turning to face him again. "Let's see if you're as good at keeping your word as you are at playing cards."

Henry's lips curved into a slow smile. "You might be surprised." He folded his arms over his chest. "You're better than I expected."

"I learn from the best," I replied, trying to keep my tone light even as my pulse raced. I turned back to Henry, leaning against the window frame. "My grandfather was the best," I said, my voice softer now. "In every way, actually."

His eyebrows raised slightly. "Really?"

A smile tugged at my lips as memories flooded in. "Grandpa Joe was... something else. He used to run a little general store in our hometown. Every evening, after closing up shop, he'd sit at this rickety old table out back and deal out cards. It didn't matter if it was poker, gin rummy, or solitaire—he loved them all."

Henry leaned against the table, genuinely interested. "Sounds like quite a character."

"Oh, he was," I laughed. "He'd always have a story to tell. My favorite was about how he once hustled a professional poker player who wandered into town by mistake. 'He thought he could take an old man’s money,' Grandpa Joe would say with a wink. 'But he didn't know he was dealing with the best.'"

Henry chuckled, shaking his head. "I can picture it."

"Grandpa Joe taught me more than just how to play cards," I continued, feeling warmth spread through me at the thought of him. "He taught me strategy and patience. And he'd always say, 'The real game is in the mind, Freya. It's not about the cards you're dealt but how you play them.' I guess it was hard for me to learn that lesson, considering my temper tends to get the best of me at times. But he was always patient with me. He was always there, you know?"

Henry's eyes softened slightly. "Sounds like you two were close."

"We were," I admitted, feeling a pang of longing. "I miss him every day."

There was a brief silence before Henry spoke again, his tone surprisingly gentle. "My grandfather was something of a legend in our family too."

I looked at him curiously. "Clearly," I said, trying to inject humor in the conversation and failing.

"Yeah." He nodded, his gaze distant as if seeing something far away. "Grandfather was a strict man but fair. He built our family business from the ground up after moving here from Ireland with nothing but the clothes on his back and a dream."

I watched as Henry's features softened further at the memory of his grandfather.

"He used to say," Henry continued with a slight smile, "'A man’s worth isn’t measured by his wealth but by his honor and determination.' He instilled that in all of us."

Henry's eyes remained distant, lost in memories. "My grandfather taught me hard work and discipline. He used to say being a man wasn't about anger or aggression, but control." His gaze flicked to his hands, fingers flexing. "I guess I'm still in need of that lesson too."

My heart skipped at the firmness of his words, at the blazing blue of his eyes.

His jaw tightened as he looked back at me. "I'd do it again, Freya. You're family. Grandfather always said there's nothing more important than family."

I couldn't help but scoff, brushing a stray lock of hair back from my shoulder. "Maybe your grandfather could have sent that memo to my parents," I muttered. The bitterness in my voice surprised even me.

Henry's expression softened into curiosity, tinged with sadness. "What do you mean?"

"When Grandpa died," I began, my voice tight with old pain, "my mother was at a spa and my father was on a business trip. Neither came home. I had to deal with it on my own. They said it was expected, with his age, you know? He was in the hospital with pneumonia, but still. I wish I had been there. I wish he didn't have to die alone. And then after… I was only fifteen. I didn't know what I was doing."

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut. I could still hear the phone ringing, still see the cold hospital room where I'd stood alone, trying to make sense of the words spoken by a doctor who didn't even know my name.

Henry stiffened beside me. He reached out and cupped my cheeks with his large hand, his touch unexpectedly gentle. "I'm sorry you had to go through that alone," he murmured.

I swallowed hard, emotions threatening to choke me. His eyes were sincere, filled with a warmth I hadn't expected. I wanted to respond, to tell him how much those words meant, but I couldn't find anything to say. Instead, I just stood there, letting the silence fill the space between us.

For once, silence didn't feel empty; it felt like an understanding—an unspoken connection that neither of us could quite articulate but both could feel.

My chest tightened further as memories swirled around us like ghosts in the dimly lit room. Henry's hand remained on my cheek, steady and reassuring.

Finally, I just nodded slightly and looked away.

"Let's go to bed," Henry murmured, dropping his hand and lacing his fingers through mine.

A spark shot through me, and I looked down at our intertwined hands, surprised by the warmth. But I didn't fight him. He led me upstairs to our room, each step filled with a mix of hesitation and anticipation.

When we reached the room, he released my hand and walked over to his dresser. After rummaging through a drawer, he pulled out a shirt and handed it to me. "Here," he murmured. "For you to sleep in."

I looked down at the shirt, the fabric soft and worn from countless washes. As Henry moved to the restroom, I brought it to my face and inhaled deeply. His scent enveloped me—a heady combination of cedarwood and something uniquely him. It was comforting in a way I hadn't expected.

Quickly, I removed my bra and tossed the shirt over my head. It fell to my mid-thigh, the material brushing against my skin like a gentle caress. The shirt was far too big for me, but that only made it feel more intimate.

Henry emerged from the restroom just as I finished adjusting the shirt. He paused in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over me before settling on my face. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something that made my heart race all over again.

Without a word, he crossed the room and climbed into bed, leaving space for me beside him. I hesitated for a moment before joining him, slipping under the covers and feeling the warmth of his body radiating towards me.

As we lay there in the dim light, I couldn't help but wonder how things had gotten so complicated between us. But for now, with his scent surrounding me and his presence beside me, it felt like we were finding our way back to something real.

"Freya," Henry murmured from beside me. "I won't make a fool of you."

I furrowed my brows and turned to look at him so I was on my side. "What are you talking about?"

"You say you're concerned about marriage because of fidelity expectations," he said. "It goes both ways. I won't step out on you."

I didn't know why, but I believed him. "Why?" I asked.

"Loyalty," he said, his voice firm. "Another lesson from my grandfather. Loyalty means everything. That, and honor. Not many people have it. And that Imprinting Ceremony… As much as I hated it, I'm treating it like a step towards our marriage. You're mine, yes, but I'm yours."

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over me. "You can't run away," I said quietly. "If we're fighting, you have to… we have to talk or fight through it. Not avoid it."

"My grandfather —"

"With all due respect to your grandfather, this isn't about him," I said. "It's about you. About who you want to be, about what our relationship is supposed to be. I want you to be loyal to me, not because your grandfather told you to, but because you want to." I sighed. "Your grandfather built a legacy with the values he developed, and he passed them to you. But you're allowed to have your own values too. I don't want to be an obligation, some box to tic off. I want you to want to marry me, even if that seems na?ve. And I want your faithfulness because you want to be faithful to me."

"Nothing happened," Henry said, turning to face me fully. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheeks, then my neck.

A shudder ran through me at his touch.

I sighed. "Where did you go?" I asked.

"A fight club," he admitted. "I needed to punch something."

A smirk tugged at my lips despite the tension in the air. "I really riled you up, huh?"

"You have this uncanny way of getting under the skin," he murmured, his thumb tracing my lips gently. "Nothing happened."

The sincerity in his eyes disarmed me more than his words. It was as if he was laying himself bare in front of me, no pretense or walls.

My breath hitched slightly as he continued to touch me, his thumb still tracing the outline of my lips as if committing them to memory.

"I'm a very possessive man, Freya," Henry murmured, his voice low and intense. "I didn't know that about myself. Not until I found out about you and Dan. The thing is, I initially didn't care about loyalty, not to you. I didn't know you. If you wanted to fuck around before marriage, fine. I was doing the same thing. But then, I saw you with him… and something in me snapped. And now, with Jensen after you… I could kill them and not bat an eye."

I sucked in a breath, feeling a mix of fear and something else—something dangerous and thrilling—curl in my chest.

"That's something no one taught me," he continued, his eyes never leaving mine. "No one but you. And I realized I don't want anyone else but what's mine."

I knew I should correct him. Tell him that I'm not a possession, not something to be owned or claimed. But the words stuck in my throat. Instead, my lower stomach fluttered with want, and I pushed the feeling away.

"You're my wife," he said firmly. "There is no one else. There will be no one else. Not because of something my grandfather says. But because of me. Do you understand?"

I nodded slowly, unable to break away from the intensity of his gaze.

"Good," he murmured, his voice softening just a fraction. "Because as my wife, I expect you at my game tomorrow night. And then,… well, then we get married."

The weight of his words settled over me like a heavy blanket—warm but suffocating at the same time. Marriage was supposed to be an agreement between equals, not an arrangement bound by possessiveness and jealousy.

Yet here we were.

Henry's fingers traced the line of my jaw before tilting my chin up slightly so our eyes locked once more.

"We'll make it work," he said with a confidence that made my heart ache.

I swallowed hard and nodded again, feeling the storm of emotions inside me threaten to spill over.

His lips curved into a small smile—a rare softness that hinted at the man beneath the armor.

"Goodnight, Freya," he whispered before turning off the bedside lamp.

In the darkness, I lay beside him, trying to make sense of everything—of us—of this life we were about to forge together.

Sleep didn't come easily that night.