Chapter 21

I wake up with a start, my hair stuck to my sweaty forehead. I was chasing him, but he was far away and sobbing, hunched over an easel in the rose garden.

“Why can’t I draw you?” he cried repeatedly.

What? Hazy, unsettling images sift through my mind. My heart pounds and I rub the soreness there. I must’ve fallen asleep while I was working. Ever since I moved here, I’ve been having the strangest dreams, with the restlessness inside me growing.

My stomach growls as I stare at the piles of paper on my bed and on the floor—designs I’m sure the asshole Gordon would reject and make fun of.

How could he not? He has tasked me with the impossible—to create a fall and winter collection giving cozy, warm vibes but can’t have black, brown, grays, wool, sleeves , and the fabrics used have to include linen and taffeta.

“That asshole,” I curse under my breath as I step on one of my drawings on the way to the door.

I really need to find a place for my work studio. Somewhere other than the bedroom.

Quietly, I traipse down the dark corridor, the floorboards creaking and groaning beneath my steps. The door to Maxwell’s master suite across the hall is closed.

It’s like we are roommates instead of husband and wife.

But a roommate’s heart doesn’t pound whenever she’s in his presence, her ears don’t perk up whenever she hears his voice .

A roommate wouldn’t wish to share a simple pastrami and rye with a bad boy with soulful eyes on a quiet night.

Eerie whispers slither down the halls, the hollow sounds writhing then vanishing, but I’ve been told they are just air coming out of the vents. I don’t know if I’ll ever be used to the weird noises and constantly feeling like I have invisible company.

My stomach grumbles again, and I quickly make my way to the kitchen on the first floor. Mora told me in the olden days, the kitchen was in the basement where the staff lived as well, but the family has since moved the kitchen upstairs, with downstairs functioning as an extra cooking space if needed.

I pad across the cool marble floors, not knowing why I’m sneaking around when I’m the mistress of the house. My fingers brush the black marble countertops before opening one of the two stainless steel refrigerators.

What am I going to eat? God knows I can’t cook to save my life. Maybe I’ll have some fru—

“What are you doing here so late at night?”

“Holy shit!” I yelp. “Are you a ghost or something? Warn a girl next time. You scared the crap out of me!” I close the door.

Maxwell chuckles as he turns on the under-cabinetry lights, illuminating the space in a soft glow.

My heart stalls in my throat.

He’s half naked, wearing only an opened flannel shirt and a low-slung pair of gray sweatpants, his hair wet and haphazardly raked over his head like he just got out of a shower.

I gulp, diverting my eyes away from him before I do something stupid like ogle and drool over the well-defined muscles.

“You scare easily.”

“Anyone would if someone snuck up on you at one a.m.”

“Afraid of a little street race, skydiving,” he ticks off his fingers, “strange noises in the hallway. ”

I frown. “Agnes told you that, didn’t she?” I don’t want to admit this because I try to find the good in everyone, but I’m starting to dislike her.

Maxwell huffs out a breath, a rare smile on his lips. My heart pounds at the sight, the lightness I haven’t seen from him since that night at the race.

“I have ears. I don’t need her to tell me anything. Last week, you screeched so loudly because the wind rattled the windows, I could hear you all the way from the study.”

“I was in my zone and I swear that wasn’t the wind!”

I was marveling at the gorgeous two-story library, with its ornate coffered ceilings featuring intricate medallions, the Tiffany floor lamps and vintage light fixtures on the reading tables. The inner nerd in me was jumping with joy at the towering bookshelves filled to the brim with books.

I planned to curl up by the roaring fireplace in the large armchair with a book as the winds howled outside. There was something especially cozy about being in a warm environment while nature threw a tantrum around you.

But just as I sat down and opened a tome—an original, first edition of Regency era fashions—

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Something slammed against the glass repeatedly.

I shrieked, turning toward the windows as terror seized me. A man in a dark mask stared back at me.

I screamed. Loudly.

Morris rushed in minutes later and when I told him what happened, he turned on the yard lights to investigate.

But no one was there.

“It must’ve been the wind,” Morris murmured.

“It wasn’t! I swear!” I let out a shuddering breath. Was it really just the wind? “Morris… Can I ask you something?”

The old butler smiled and nodded.

“Is the curse real?”

The smile slipped off his face. He rasped, “Generations of Andersons lived in these halls. And yes, there have been tragedies…multiple accidents and misfortunes leading up to the deaths of several Anderson women.”

My blood froze in my veins and my fear had to have shone on my face because he added, “I’m an old man and I’ve found that humans are eviler than the supernatural. And it’s best not to believe in rumors. After all, curses and ghosts can’t be real, right?”

With that cryptic, unsettling message, he left the library.

I shiver at the memory and narrow my eyes at my husband. “It was scary.”

“Right. It’s the boogeyman out to get you.” Maxwell smirks as he steps toward me, completely oblivious to his state of undress.

“I swear, I saw a person in a mask.”

“Someone standing out in the dark?” He cocks a brow. “Morris told me your worries.” He walks over and I shift to the side as he grabs a few items from the fridge.

“We have state-of-the-art security systems installed. I didn’t see anything on the tape when I reviewed it,” he murmurs as he hovers over a cutting board and begins slicing the items he got out of the fridge moments ago. “There was no one there.”

He checked on it for me? The thought pleases me. I shake my head to dispel the jitteriness swimming in my gut, I focus my attention back on him.

His movements are sure and practiced, and my core clenches involuntarily. There’s something really sexy about a man who knows his way around a kitchen.

Maxwell pauses and turns to face me, his face severe and half-cast in shadows. “Belle, you’re one hundred percent safe here. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

My pulse reverberates in my ears.

I believe him. Somehow, I know this man will hurt himself before he lets me get in harm’s way.

“G-Good.” I flash him a tentative smile even though butterflies have taken flight in my stomach.

Ding.

He pauses his motions and wipes his hand on a towel before pulling out his phone from his sweatpants.

“Shit.” He scowls.

“What’s wrong?”

He glances at me before turning his attention back to his food prep. “They want me to speak at the gala.”

“The one in January here?” The one I’m hosting? It’d be nice if people loop me in.

He nods.

“Who’s they?”

“A PR think tank out on the west coast. They work closely with Lana on all things press related.”

Before we got married, Maxwell sent me an email saying the gala I’m overseeing is a charity ball benefiting depression and anxiety research. It’ll also serve as a press event to open the doors to the elusive Anderson family, so to speak, which the PR team hopes will ease the public and investors’ recent worries over Fleur.

“You don’t want to speak at the gala.”

It isn’t a question, but more of an observation. I remember how difficult it was for him to say the wedding vows at church. The haunted look in his eyes, which only lessened once I turned him away from the crowds. Then there were the articles I found about his disastrous press conference when I was doing my research on him.

The thumping of the knife hitting the cutting board ratchets up in aggression and his jaw clenches.

“No. But I have to. For the company. There have been too many changes in management in the last few years. Then I fucked it up at the press conference.” And the wedding reception, but we both don’t mention that.

He grunts and hangs his head low .

“I need to fix this. To fix what I broke.” He grabs the towel and whips it against the counter. “ Fucking pathetic . It’s only a fucking speech.”

I step closer, my heart tugging at the anguish and frustration in his voice. “But you didn’t break anything.”

Gnawing my lip, I take in his tense frame, wondering if I should continue. “Few people know this, but my grandpa had anxiety. Severe anxiety. His was different than yours, but I recognize the signs. His mind wouldn’t turn off about his worries—work, family, how the next collection would do. Sometimes, he’d lock himself in his studio and not see anyone.”

Maxwell stills and silence fills the air. I wonder if I overspoke.

“What did he do?”

Sliding my hand over his back, I rub reassuring circles over his bunched muscles. “He’d try to tough it out and every time he came out of the room, he’d put on a smile and tell me everything was fine. But I knew that wasn’t true until one time when I was sixteen.”

I swallow, thinking back to the day that changed everything for me.

“I barged into his studio and found him curled up on the floor, sweat plastering his forehead. He was breathing into a paper bag. He’d had a panic attack.”

My eyes tear up. “He started crying when he saw me. Loud sobbing. He told me he thought he was useless for being a mess. And it couldn’t be farther from the truth. This was the man I looked up to my entire life. The man who created things from his imagination. The man who spent the most time with me. It was then when I realized how much Grandpa loved his company and how much beauty—his groundbreaking designs—came out of such a dark place.” I swallow before letting out a shaky exhale.

“When he died a few months later, I promised myself I’d take care of his legacy, to make sure the beauty continues.”

I clutch Maxwell’s shoulder, but he still refuses to look at me. It’s like he’s ashamed. “Anxiety and panic attacks aren’t weaknesses. They’re just chemical imbalances and neurons misfiring and whatnot. Standing up and trying again is a sign of strength. Not many people can do that. Be strong enough to keep trying.”

He trembles under my touch.

“It’s easy to paddle in the water when the seas are calm. But to push through and survive when there’s a storm? That’s true power. There’s help out there, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

A muscle twitches in his jaw as his eyes rove hungrily over my face. “T-Thank you,” he whispers.

My skin heats from his intense gaze and in this moment, I see Silas, the man from the race. He’s inside him, hiding from the public.

But don’t hide from me.

“Have you considered getting help?” I ask.

His eyes harden and he turns away from me. “I can do this on my own. It’s only a fucking speech.” He goes back to slicing his ingredients before he stacks them together.

I don’t press him. I know he needs the space to figure this out for himself.

“I’ll help you practice then.” I walk back to the refrigerator, my stomach grumbling again. Darn it, I still haven’t gotten my snack. I mull over my options.

“That soup looks good. Ohhh, there’s some deli meat. Maybe I can make a sandwich. Those blueberries are huge ,” I mutter.

He chuckles.

“Look at you scrunching your face like you’re making a decision of a lifetime.”

Spinning around, I narrow my eyes at him. The fridge door slams shut behind me. “It’s one in the morning! If I eat whatever I want, I’ll have heartburn later, not to mention what that’ll do to my waistline.” I point to my stomach for emphasis.

“You’re perfect,” he rasps, his eyes flashing before softening.

My pulse quickens, and the air thickens between us .

“Year of yeses, no? A new attitude toward life.” He smirks. “Live life on the edge, grab the bull by the horns. Eat whatever you want at one a.m.”

Slowly, he prowls toward me with an arrogant swagger, the tensed man from moments ago nowhere to be seen.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. He’s standing a few inches away from me.

Maxwell’s smile disappears as his eyes rove over my face, then my neck, and slowly rakes down my body. I’m breathing hard and know the silk pajama camisole and shorts set does little to cover my body.

The tension swells in the room as all my nerve endings awaken for this virile man, my fingers twitching with the need to touch him, to feel those hard abs and pecs, to bury my face in the crook of his neck and inhale his comforting scent of amber and sandalwood.

Unable to stop myself, I place my palm on his chest. He flinches and groans at my touch, and I feel an aching need pulsing between my legs. My hands slide underneath the flannel, fingers tracing his defined muscles until they reach his side.

His right side that’s covered in thick ropes of scars.

My eyes fly to his face in shock, noticing a pained expression on his features, his lips tight.

“What happened?”

“A boar attack when I was in high school… Ryland and I were hunting and we disturbed the beast by accident. I pushed him away and got mauled instead. Almost didn’t make it.”

He shrugs as he stares at me with those intense gray pools. “The scars cover half my body. They’re flaws. Ugly.”

His words are light, but I sense the agony behind them.

Wordlessly, my fingers trace the raised edges, some deeper than others, the ropes of scars twisting over his skin like art, a tapestry of untold pain.

How it must have hurt .

My eyes prickle as my hand kneads the tensed muscles under the puckered skin. “Not flaws, Maxwell. They’re one-of-a-kind art on a canvas. They tell me the story of someone who risked his life to save his loved one. Someone who isn’t afraid of sacrifice.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but I lean in and press my lips over the scar closest to his pecs, and he hisses.

He reaches out and digs his hands on my shoulders, holding me close and urging me to continue, a tortured groan slipping out of his lips as I press one soft kiss after another.

“They’re beautiful.” I breathe in his scent, a sultry heat swirling inside me.

Maxwell lets out another shuddering exhale before dragging me up his body and pinning me against the stainless steel fridge door.

“What are you doing to me?” he murmurs, his hand cupping my face, his thumb sliding over the sensitive area where my ear meets my neck. I let out a whimper.

“What do you want from me?” He leans down as my eyes flutter shut and drags his nose along the side of my neck.

I want you. All of you.

I moan, wetness gathering between my legs. I need more. I need everything.

Tilting my head back, I bare my neck to him, my hands clutching the rippling muscles of his back. He trails heated kisses down my throat, his mouth laving at the pulse points, and I let out a mewl, my fingers digging into his muscles.

Everything is so sensitive, so achy, so taut.

Growling, he hoists me up and palms my ass, and I wrap my legs around him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters.

He nips my clavicles, his hands digging into my ass cheeks, but the pain only adds to the erotic sensations coursing through me .

I claw at his flannel shirt, wanting to feel every inch of his hot body pressed against mine. He sets me on the countertop and slides out of the flannel, baring all his muscles in their full glory.

My mouth waters at every chiseled edge, every hard ripple, the leashed power inside him.

“Yes,” I whisper, raking my nails over every indentation, feeling his body harden and tremor at my touch.

He buries his face in my chest, his lips trailing over the sensitive skin of my cleavage as his hand slides one strap off my shoulders.

My breasts are heavy and swollen, nipples aching for him to touch them, to taste them. But I need his mouth on mine more. I need to taste him again, to kiss those addictive lips of his.

I grip his hair and drag his head up toward my lips. He lets out a pleasurable hiss, our labored breaths an erotic symphony in the dim room.

Maxwell pins my hands to the cabinets behind me, his eyes glazed with madness and lust as they snare on my parted lips.

Kiss me, I command silently.

I need him so, so much.

He stands as still as a statue, hovering over me, making me feel so small and yet so safe. But he doesn’t move.

Impatiently, I shrug out of his hold and cradle his face to draw him toward me.

“Kiss me,” I say aloud, feeling his breath fanning my lips.

He freezes, then hauls himself off me before raking his hand over his mussed hair.

“Fuck!”

His eyes are a wild, turbulent storm, and he shakes his head in anger—at himself, at me, I don’t know.

“I can’t, Belle. I can’t. It’s for your own good.”

What?

Without another word, he spins around and stalks out of the kitchen .

My pulse riots inside my veins as the dull pain appears in my chest, similar to the mysterious ache that pulses through me whenever I open the locket around my neck and read its heartfelt inscription.

A barrage of emotions hit me at once—anger, sadness, the pain of rejection. I don’t understand him, this frigid king who burns hotter than the stars in the nighttime skies.

Before I leave the kitchen, I look at the counter, and my heart hiccups.

On it is a perfectly plated sandwich—a pastrami on rye.