The Palace (Chateau 4)

“You and your sister look nothing alike.”

“We have the same eyes.”

“Never noticed.” He continued to eat, his mood souring slightly at the mention of Raven.

“You guys seem good again.”

He drank from his glass of water and kept his arms on the table, but he didn’t eat. It wasn’t a question, but he absorbed my statement like it was, searching for a response. “He’s made up for his mistake…for the most part.” His eyes flicked away, slightly glazing over. “His betrayal hurt. But I know he wasn’t himself.” His dark eyes came back to me. “A woman can do that to you…”

I felt the waves of his stare wash over me like the high tide had rushed in. The beat against my face as if I were the rocks. They kept coming—over and over. “It’s good to forgive and forget—especially for family.”

His stare deepened, penetrating my face like needles to the skin. “And love.” His hands went back to his utensils, and he watched himself slice the meat and stab the vegetables before putting it in his mouth, his eyes returning to me.

My heart raced because that was the first time he’d said anything of the sort since I’d left. “How did you two get into this line of business?”

He ate his food with no intention of answering.

“I just want to know you better. If I intend to stay here for a long time—”

“For the rest of your life.” His voice deepened, as if giving me a command that only had one response—to obey.

He possessed me with just his words, reached across the table and grabbed me without ever touching me. Even when we weren’t in the same room together, his hold was unbreakable. I lived on my own in Paris for months, and even then, he still had me. I had options to date other men, to sleep with other men, to move back home, but I never did any of those things. “Then you’ll have to tell me.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Melanie.”

It was a deliberate sting, a reminder that he was still upset about my betrayal, that he hadn’t quite overcome it. “I just want to know you. That’s all. Why does Gilbert call you His Highness? Is that a title you picked out?”

He stopped eating, resting his arms on the table. “No.”

“Then where does it come from?”

He gripped the fork between his fingers. “I’m a count.”

My eyebrows rose. “A…count?”

“Yes.”

The palace. The paintings. The teacups. The butler. His social connections. In an instant, it all made sense. He was handsome, intelligent, well-mannered, like he’d been born into elegance. “If you’re a count, why do you have the camp?” If he was already rich, already powerful, then what did he need it for?

His look turned cold.

“I just want to know you…” I egged him forward in the only way I could.

His elbows rested on the table, and his hands came together in front of his lips. He stared me down, for seconds that felt like minutes. “Our wealth and reputation were stolen from us. I had to earn it back to reclaim my title.”

“Who’s us?”

“My family.” He continued to remain tense, the veins popping in his arms, like he was forcing himself to answer, forcing himself to share a piece of his life with me.

“Who took it away from you?”

Silence stretched. Stretched so far that the string broke. “You know me in the ways that matter. My past has nothing to do with us—”

“If it has nothing to do with us, then why won’t you tell me—”

“Because I don’t want to.” He raised his voice slightly, bringing me and the entire house into silence. “I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to talk about it. Conversation over.”

Once we were on the bed, his foul mood evaporated.

He was on top of me, taking me slowly, taking me over and over, his kisses on my neck and jawline, his mouth against my ear so I could listen to him breathe. When we were connected this way, he was the softest—his mind, body, and soul wrapped around mine. Without saying the words, he made me feel loved, made me feel secure in his commitment, safe in his devotion, made me feel things no other man ever had.

When we were finished, he lay beside me, his fingers slightly grazing over my skin. He would press a kiss to my shoulder for no reason. He would stare at me like he hadn’t stared at me all day. Whatever he had of me, it just wasn’t enough. Never enough.

I propped myself up on my elbow and turned to him, my palm planted against his stomach. I stared at the hardness of his physique, the strength of his abs, his two pecs that looked like concrete slabs.

His fingers slid through my hair, gently brushing it out of my face. His fingers moved underneath my chin and gently lifted my eyes, wanting my stare to meet his. His fingers released me and slipped back into my hair once he had me in the right position. I was the painting—and he savored me like art.