17. Family Obligations

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Family Obligations

H is touch is comforting, warm, strong, sending waves of safety coursing through me, returning me to my own body. I can also feel his erection.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice strained. "Please, ignore it."

He isn't touching me anywhere inappropriate. He sounds genuinely sorry, but he can't control it. And the truth is, neither can I. Despite the horrors of that cave, my body still hums with arousal because I'm in his arms. The pull between us is too powerful, too insistent. Too elemental.

I know it's messed up, but then everything about tonight has been messed up. Why should this be any different?

I lean in, pressing my lips to the column of his throat, tasting the salt of his skin. He's all masculinity and raw sex appeal, and I can't help but be drawn to him, despite the chaos that surrounds us.

"No, Anne," he says, his voice a low growl. "You don't want this."

I pull back, meeting his gaze with a fierce determination. "Yes, William," I say, using his first name on purpose. "I want you."

To prove my point, I take his hand and guide it to my breast, the one Luca didn't hurt. Stratford instinctively kneads and teases my nipple through the fabric of the shirt, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine.

With a look of tortured resignation, he pulls away.

"You're confused," he says. "You've been through a traumatic experience, and I can't take advantage of you."

"Don't infantilize me. I know my own mind."

Conflict rages in his dark eyes, the battle between his protective instincts and his own deep-seated desires. In that moment, I realize something profound: he's been hurt, too. The Society's twisted game forced him to do something unforgivable, something that went against his very nature.

He couldn't consent any more than I could. He had to do it to protect me. That's why he went faster. It wasn't enjoyment he felt on that table any more than my orgasm was genuine pleasure.

He was a victim in that moment, just as I was.

With newfound clarity, I climb into his lap, my knees straddling his hips. I pepper his face with soft kisses.

"Wait," he groans, resistance crumbling. "We can't."

"What happened before wasn't our choice. It wasn't even really sex. It was a show. Show me how beautiful it can be. I need to remember."

His response is visceral, a groan of surrender that resonates deep within my soul. His hands find their way back to my body, exploring and caressing.

His lips claim mine in a searing kiss. His hands, strong and sure, grip my waist, pulling me closer, as if he's afraid I might vanish if he lets go. The evidence of his desire, hard and insistent against my thigh, makes my mouth water.

There's no room for doubt or hesitation—there's only the overwhelming force of our mutual need. He lifts me effortlessly, this time turning me away from him, setting me on the side table so that I'm in front of the gilt mirror.

The position is intimate, exposing, and I can't help but feel a flush of self-consciousness as my legs dangle over the edge, spread wide before him.

He stands behind me, his gaze locked with mine in the mirror even as he unbuttons the shirt and pulls it aside.

His fingers trace the column of my neck, a featherlight touch that sends shivers cascading across my skin. "This is yours," he murmurs. "Your strength, your grace, your intelligence."

His hands move lower, cupping my breasts through the fabric of my shirt. My nipples harden at his touch, aching for more. He brushes a hand to the side of the bruise left from Luca's hand, his expression darkening. "Your beauty, your power, your resilience."

His hands skim down my stomach to the insides of my thighs. I'm acutely aware of the heat pooling. "Yours," he says, husky with desire.

This isn't just about physical pleasure; it's a reclamation, a defiant stand against the claim that Luca and the Society tried to place on me.

With agonizing slowness, he parts the folds of my sex, revealing the flushed, aching core of me. I watch in the mirror, my breath hitching as I take in the erotic sight. "Look at how beautiful you are," he says, his gaze never leaving mine. "You are royalty, Anne. No one can take that from you. "

His words wash over me, a powerful avowal of my agency.

"You're all I ever wanted," he murmurs against my temple.

His fingers begin to move, stroking and teasing with a skill that leaves me breathless, with a knowledge of me that feels reverent. Tension coils within me. Pleasure spirals higher. I arch into his touch, gasping as he kisses the side of my throat, nipping to make me jump and then licking to soothe it away.

I'm lost in a sea of sensation, every nerve ending alight. He's relentless in his pursuit, stroking the bundle of nerves. I cry out, my body bowing off the marble top of the side table as climax rips through me.

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, not even as my body convulses around his fingers. I'm too sensitive, but he keeps going, bringing me to the edge and pushing me over again and again, each orgasm leaving me more mindless than the last. He's been hard against my back this whole time, groaning when I press against him in the throes of pleasure.

He nudges me back off the side table, supporting me with his strength. It's enough room for him to sheathe himself inside me. I'm a panting, quivering mess. Even so, the stretch borders on pain. I welcome it, welcome the feeling of wanting him, of choosing this.

He sets a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against mine with an urgency that borders on desperation. I rock back thrust for thrust, our bodies moving together as one, each stroke of his cock hitting that perfect spot deep within me. The side table rocks ominously against the wall, threatening fracture. He doesn't seem to care. Neither do I. Let the entire city crumble around us.

The pressure builds once more. I cling to him, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back, as I shatter around him for what feels like the hundredth time. His release follows soon after, a guttural shout tearing from his throat as he spills himself inside me. He calls out my name, "Anne," a plea and a benediction all at once, his body shuddering against mine as he rides out the waves of his own climax.

For a moment, we stay that way, our bodies slick with sweat, our hearts beating in wild unison. He holds me close, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

In the aftermath, Stratford takes me back into the shower again. I don't mind. I might never get enough of his hands soaping over me, feeling me, honoring me. Cleansing me in body and spirit.

We collapse onto the bed, falling into a deep sleep. It's nearly morning when we wake, dawn like a creeping tendril. I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at him, his dark hair disheveled from my fingers.

"What now?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes open, meeting mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. "I have to finish my mission, Anne," he says, his voice low and filled with an anguish that he tries to bury deep. "That's the most important thing. It's the only way to stop them. The only way you'll be fully safe."

Unease swirls in my stomach. "They'll come for me again?"

He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle yet firm. "I hope not. My claim on you at the Society meeting tonight should shield you, but you must not have any contact with them. None at all. Not even in classes. Ignore Matteo, ignore all of them. Pretend like you know nothing. That's the safest way for you."

A chill runs through me at his words. Their tendrils reach far and wide, their influence insidious and dangerous. But the thought of ignoring it all, of pretending like nothing happened, like I don't know the truth, seems impossible. "What about you?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly. "What's the safest way for you?"

His gaze darkens, a shadow passing over his features. "My path was set a long time ago, Anne. If I get harmed, or even killed, over the Society, it will only be just rewards for the sins I've committed in my life."

My heart aches at his words, at the resignation in his voice. "What terrible things have you done?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw clenches. "I hurt you. Does anything else matter?"

"Yes."

"Fine, if you have to know, my father was the person who founded the society. This isn't only my past. It's his. He doesn't know what they're doing. Lost his mind a decade ago. Which was a relief, really. It would kill him."

I stare at him, my mind racing.

Pretending to be someone he's not in order to fulfill his family obligations—but it will ultimately result in his death. Like Hamlet. The thought sends a wave of panic coursing through me.

I don't know how to save him.

I don't think I can.

Reaching out, I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips.

His eyes have closed, shutting me out. I'm left with a sense of dread, a gnawing fear that the man I've come to care for, the man I've chosen despite all the risks, is slipping away from me, drawn inexorably towards a fate he can't escape.

A knock comes at the door.

My heartbeat skips. Has the Society come for us?

Stratford doesn't look surprised. Instead, he rises and pulls on slacks before leaving to open the door. He comes back in with Daisy who has a tote bag and a look of concern.

"I brought you clothes," she tells me.

It's a reversal of the time last semester, when she was hurt by the Society. Now I'm the one lying in the Provost's house. She approaches me, her gaze softening as she takes in my state. I can't meet her eyes, can't bear the thought of seeing pity or judgment reflected back at me.

"How are you?" she asks, her voice gentle.

I offer her a small smile. "Oh, you know, a little busy. Running errands, that kind of thing. Definitely no near-death experiences."

"Good," she says, allowing me to keep it light. "I would hate to find out you did something super dangerous and got hurt."

She helps me get dressed, which at first seems over the top, but as my movements are a little stiff, actually helps. Her movements are efficient, yet there's a tenderness to her touch that brings tears to my eyes. She doesn't push for details I'm not ready to share. Of all people, she understands that sometimes explaining something hurts as much as living it.

Once I'm dressed, she wraps an arm around my shoulders, guiding me towards the door. I cast a backward glance at William, who stands motionless by the window, his face a mask of unreadable emotions. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I see a flicker of something—regret, longing, despair—before he looks away, his jaw set in a hard line.

Daisy guides me back to the dorm, where absolutely no one takes notice of plain, boring, very-studious Anne Hill, who probably went to some early TA study session. She would never go out late for a party. Never participate in some ritualistic forced group sex. My complete and total boringness is a shield.

The familiarity of our tiny room offers some comfort.

After all, nothing has really changed.

I'm just a broke scholarship student, living in the worst dorm on campus. And Stratford has an entire life where I don't belong.