I lean down and capture her lips with mine, initiating a slow, sensual kiss that speaks volumes about the pain we’re trying to bury beneath this moment. There’s no intimacy, just roughness and raw emotions that meld together. They create an unspoken bond of mutual desire and understanding.
She responds immediately, opening her mouth to me, granting me access to the unexplored depths of her soul. Our tongues dance together, tasting and teasing as we lose ourselves. We are two strangers, precariously balanced on the delicate tightrope of desire, a thread of longing tethering our bodies together.
The world around us dissolves gradually, blurring into insignificance as our troubles retreat into the shadows. Every breath we take is infused with desperation, a silent plea for solace and connection in the midst of the pain we’re trying to forget.
In this fleeting moment, I find a semblance of refuge in the arms of a stranger.
The kiss is a journey, a momentary escape from the pain and uncertainty that plagues our lives. As our lips move in harmony, I find solace in the comforting warmth of her embrace. My inner turmoil fades, at least momentarily, as I cling to the fleeting connection between us.
There’s no hope for anything but letting myself forget that I’m Lysander Spearman and my life is a fucking shit show.
As we continue to lose ourselves in the intoxicating depths of the kiss, something shifts within her. She suddenly stiffens in my arms, her fingers clutching at my shoulders, as if trying to anchor herself to reality.
With a sharp intake of breath, she withdraws, her eyes wide and exposed, mirroring the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. It’s as if the weight of the world has come crashing down, obliterating the delicate refuge we had discovered in the tender warmth of our embrace.
“I… I can’t do this,” she stammers, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”
She steps back, creating distance between us. Regret is etched into her face, the sadness returning to her eyes. Just now, I realize that no matter how hard we try to forget, sometimes the burdens we carry are too heavy to escape, even for a single night.
“It’s okay,” I reassure her softly, the ache in my chest growing. “You don’t have to apologize.”
She offers a weak, apologetic smile, but I can tell the momentary connection we shared has been severed, a wall of self-preservation replacing it. It’s at this very moment that the elevator doors slide open, and she sighs with relief. With a final, lingering glance, she turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone, the echoes of our fleeting escape surrounding me.
As I watch her retreat, I can’t help but wonder if it’s possible for either of us to ever truly forget the pain that haunts us, or if we’re doomed to carry these burdens alone, searching for solace that remains just out of reach.
Chapter Three
Lysander
Videoconferences make my skin crawl, yet I couldn’t avoid it today. The feeling of dread lingers as I stare at the screen.
“We finally found your ex-girlfriend,” Derek Farrow, the owner of Crait Quantum Shield, announces, his voice heavy with the weight of what this means for me.
Crait Quantum Shield is the company we hired to help us collect evidence to expose the truth I’ve known for the past eighteen years. I might know most of the facts, but my retelling won’t help bring justice—and that’s what I’m craving.
I have a thirst for revenge.
“Are you sure this is how you want everything to play?” Finnegan Gil, Derek’s business partner and husband, asks, his voice carefully neutral, not giving anything away.
“You don’t think this will bury them in jail?” I ask, second-guessing myself.
My brothers Aslan and Gatsby agreed with me. We want these people to pay but also to unveil every secret they hide and every crime they’ve committed.
Finnegan shrugs slightly. “No, but we could follow a simpler route to finishing the issue sooner.”
“Assassination isn’t an option,” I protest, my voice coming out harsh, the words slicing through the tension.
Finnegan laughs. “Your jokes always crack me up.” Before he can continue, my phone buzzes—Huxley, my youngest brother: Come down to the coffee shop ASAP. I have something important to show you.
This is probably code for: I did something very stupid, and I need you to bail me out.
I tap my fingers on my desk a couple of times, feeling the weight of what might have happened bearing down on me. “Gentlemen, my brother needs me. Can we continue this meeting later today?”
Derek glances at his watch, then at the screen. “We’ll be around for another couple of hours. Message us, and we can jump back on a call.”
I rise from my seat, my muscles tense as I hurry toward the coffee shop. Huxley has been acting strangely since that woman who claims to own the bookstore came into town. He’s usually levelheaded and calm, but Enid has unearthed emotions in my brother I never knew existed. I brace myself for the worst as I push the door open.
To my surprise, Huxley sits at the table, sharing coffee with Enid—his new enemy—and someone else I don’t recognize. He picks up his drinks and food when he spots me before standing up. When he walks by me, he says, “We’re leaving, but she’s looking for you. I’m looking forward to the explanation. And, well, surprise.” His voice is sarcastic, tinged with what could be anger or disappointment. It’s hard to tell with him.
When I approach the table where the other woman sits, I’m taken aback. She’s not a woman, but a teenager who bears a striking resemblance to my sisters Fern and Cory.
I’m not sure who she is, but the similarities with my sisters indicate this is a family matter, and I have to drag her away from this place before we can talk about who she is and what she’s doing here.
“Follow me,” I order with a firm voice.
“What? No. I’m here looking for my father,” she says, defiance sparking in her eyes.
“I’ll take you to him,” I promise, wondering who’s going to get an earful from me.
Her challenging gaze pierces me, stirring up memories of my sister Cory. She’s not going to do what I say until I give her a satisfactory explanation. There’s another way to persuade her—reverse psychology. My heart races as I prepare to take the gamble.
“Fine, stay if that’s what you want.” I pull out my phone. I don’t break the connection between us. “I’ll call child services so they can come and pick you up.”
“I’m eighteen,” she claims, her chin jutting out stubbornly, defiance sparking in her eyes.
“Sure, and I’m the president of Antarctica and King of the Penguins.” I can’t help the wry smile that tugs at my lips. “Also, the only one who can help you, but you do whatever you think is best.” With that, I turn and walk away, every step feeling heavier than the last.
Once I’m out of the shop, I put the phone to my ear, pretending to make a call. My heart pounds in my chest as I count in my head. One, two…
Right on cue, the door of the shop opens and closes. “Fine, I’ll go with you. Just don’t call anyone,” the kid says, her voice laced with frustration. I can’t help but smirk, relief flooding through me.