Wishing Well(46)

“I never promised you anything. Only a mistake, only one night.”

Tears slipped from her face to fall to the ground, watering the grass, drenching the soil, her pain nourishing the life of the earth beneath us. Much as it nourished me. “I know, and that’s why I should go before I say or do something that gets me fired. I need this job.”

“What were you wishing for when I found you just now? What did the coin you dropped represent?”

“What does it matter?” She asked, her voice broken, defeated.

“It matters to me. Perhaps I can help you achieve whatever is you desire.”

Flinching at the words, she shook her head. “No. I won’t go through that again. I won’t.” Finally succeeding in pulling her wrist from my grasp, she crossed her arms over her chest, her walls resurrecting. And with an honesty that dragged breath from my lungs, she locked her glistening brown eyes to mine, the gold flecks brilliant in small streams of light. “You made my body sing. I won’t deny that. But then to walk away without a word? Without a thank you or a goodbye - with nothing! I can’t, I won’t, I-“

Catching her chin with my fingers, I stilled her head, moving closer as her eyes widened, her nostrils flaring just slightly from fear, from need, from uncertainty.

My voice was a bare whisper as my lips hovered a teasing inch above hers. “Did I kiss you that night? Do you remember?”

“No,” she answered, the one word drawing more anger, slicing deeper into her heart.

At least this first, this taste, will be mine. For what my brother stole from me, he didn’t take this...

Softly, I pressed my mouth to hers, stood unmoving, undemanding, as a shudder coursed through her body, the tremble easing as she relaxed into the kiss, a pitiful sigh escaping her lungs for me to swallow.

Maurice may have stolen this angel’s body, but her soul belonged to me.

Myths. Legends. Fairytales. They all betray the truth about a person’s lips, that their kiss is the means by which life can be given or taken away. It’s never in the physical act of dominance and decimation, it’s in the submission to whim, the simple caress of one mouth against another, the slide of a tongue, the passion that ignites when two people share that single moment of pure bliss.

Even a whore will spread her legs for whatever a customer offers, but she won’t give her mouth to him, only because a person’s secrets, their hopes, their dreams, their heart can be found in a kiss.

I’d taken that from Penelope as she pressed her body to mine, as her lips parted to grant me entrance, as my fist tightened within her hair and I delivered the promise of pain. She trembled again, but not from fear, and that’s when I knew she was mine.

I could forgive Maurice for what he’d stolen because, in truth, Penelope’s heart was still firmly held within my hands.

Breaking away, I left her breathless, I watched as her eyes fluttered opened, noticed the hint of pink that colored her skin, the distance she’d placed between us now gone.

“I want you to come to my suite tonight.” My voice was huskier than I liked, the truth of my feelings coming out in the rough texture, the loss of fluidity in speech.

“Okay,” was her simple answer, her eyes closing again, her lips slightly parted, inviting me to taste again. I grinned, always amused by this puzzling beauty.

“Ten o’clock. I have work to accomplish beforehand. The entire sixth floor is mine. The elevator takes you directly to my door.”

Stepping away, I stopped, turning just enough to glance at her from over my shoulder. She stood entranced, slightly drunk, bewitched. “You never told me what you wished for.”

Heat colored her cheeks, a sheepish expression changing her face. “I wished for happiness.”

Penelope was a horrible liar. My lips curled at the corners. “Is that all?”

A few seconds passed before she released a heavy breath. “I wished for love.”

Inclining my head, I flashed her one last smile before walking away. I wished I could be going somewhere peaceful, somewhere quiet where I could enjoy the moment I’d shared with a woman that had expertly trapped my thoughts. But instead, I was in route to the basement to face Maurice for the first time since the night of the ball. I already knew what he would demand from me, and after my time with Penelope in the garden, I already knew how I would answer. This meeting would not be pleasant.

Not at all.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Faiville Prison, 10:37 am



“You look tired.”

Meadow sat back in her chair, her intent to seduce Vincent choked out by her vehemence and anger. Losing the battle she’d intended to wage against a man used to the emotional fray, she did something he wouldn’t expect: She answered him honestly.

“I am tired. But I’m also angry with you. I’m sad for Penny. I feel lost, which I assume is how she must have felt her entire time at your hotel.” Another question nagged at her mind, but it wasn’t one she would state aloud, not yet anyway.

Vincent watched her carefully, his focused attention unsettling because Meadow knew he could see every emotion that battered her defenses. She’d wanted to win against him, to do what Penny could not, but even now she felt herself sinking beneath the surface of turbulent waves.

Vincent had created a storm, and like Penny, Meadow was caught in its violence, in its hopelessness, in its drenching rains. Despite the secrets she had yet to uncover, the weapons she planned to use against a man who was tearing her heart in two, Meadow couldn’t help but understand that, in this game, there were no winners or losers. “You never told her it was Maurice that night of the ball. She never knew.”