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“But he loved you, so he loved the paintings.” I come to stand next to her, and she nods.

“Exactly. It made sense to him to order everyone we ever did business with to buy one, because we didn’t see art the sameway. But I didn’t mind that he said it, because I knew it was his way of showing that he loved me.” Estella runs her fingers over the flowers on the canvas again. “Sometimes the things someone does mean more than what they say.”

She looks up at me as she says it, and I feel a jolt in my chest, something clenching there. I can’t help but think that there’s more to that than just the words at the surface, that she’s saying more to me—but what does it matter, if she is? What could come of it?

Nothing good for either of us. Especially not now.

Estella drifts toward the other side of the room, where her other paintings are hanging gallery-style on the wall. “This one was his favorite,” she says, gesturing to the painting of the mansion and courtyard. “He liked architecture. I think in another world, one where he didn’t have to inherit the Gallo name and business, he would have gone to school for it. He was always reading books about it, explaining things to me when I’d paint, like the difference between a colonial house and a mid-century modern.” A faint smile twitches at the corners of her lips, but it drops immediately.

“He’d be alive, if he had.” She wraps her arms around herself, and I can feel the chill that spreads through the room, making her shiver. “Architects don’t die like that.”

I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing that anyonecansay. Nothing could make this better, and every possible response sounds trite. Almost insulting.

Sometimes the things someone does mean more than what they say.

I should keep the physical distance between us. Anything else risks someone walking in, someone seeing me too close to her, touching her in ways I shouldn’t. But I step closer to her all the same, close enough for her to feel the warmth of my body, and I rest my hand on the small of her back.

I stay silent as Estella looks at the paintings, not even moving my hand. Only that slight pressure against her spine, against the soft fabric of her dress, and I feel her lean back into my touch. Intome.

Desire, sharp and hot and entirely inappropriate, lances through me. I want to reach for her, to turn her so that she’s facing me, back her against the wall, and kiss her until she forgets everything else. I want to swallow her grief until there’s nothing but pleasure, lick all the tears from her mouth until all she tastes is me.

I want her to feel somethinggood, and I want to be the one to give it to her.

“You’re right,” Estella says after a long moment. “I should go upstairs and rest.” She looks up at me, moving away from my touch, and I wonder what she’s thinking right now. What she’s feeling, besides that overwhelming grief that I know is weighing her down—or maybe there is nothing else.

Maybe I’m a terrible fucking person for thinking that my touching her could make her feel anything else. That I mean that much to her.

I follow her upstairs and into her room. There’s a tray of dinner that’s been brought up and left on a side table, and Estella immediately shakes her head. “Can you get rid of it?” she asks softly. “I’m going to take a bath. I can’t—I can’t eat.”

“You need to eat,” I remind her, thinking of how I haven’t seen her eat a single thing all day. She might have eaten at breakfast while I was going over security for the funeral with Brick, but I know she hasn’t eaten since then.

“I can’t,” she whispers plaintively. “Please, Sebastian, don’t try to make me. Can you just get them to take it back downstairs?”

My jaw tightens. I want to give in to her, to tell her that yes, of course, I’ll get rid of anything that upsets her—up toand including the innocuous plate of food on the side table. But she needs to eat. She’s not helping anyone by fading away into nothingness.

“No, princess.” I shake my head, placing one hand on her back to guide her toward the chair next to the side table. “You need to eat. When you’ve finished your dinner, you can take that bath, and then you need to rest.”

A stubborn defiance flashes in Estella’s eyes, and she glares at me, digging in her heels. “How are you going to make me?” she challenges, and I wince, a dozen things that she probably doesn’t know about and could never imagine flooding my head all at once. I was already struggling the moment she mentioned the bath, fighting the image of her naked beneath the steaming hot water, mounds of soapy bubbles clinging to the tops of her breasts, or oil-slick water sliding over her skin. I was half-hard just imagining it, but now, as the bratty princess in front of me demands how I’m going to enforce my instructions, other thoughts flood my head instead.

Images of her bent over the bed while I spank her with my belt, or across my lap while she counts out the number of times my palm strikes her pretty, full ass. Thought of her on her knees, apologizing for talking back to me by taking my cock in between those full, plush lips and swallowing all of my cum once she’s sucked me well enough to earn it. That ass, striped pink while I sink into her from behind, denying her her orgasm until she begs me for it as a punishment.

Arousal throbs through me, sharp and sudden, and once again I’m suddenly harder than I’ve been in years, my cock so stiff I’m half afraid it might fucking snap off.

I shift, turning so that she can’t see it as I take the lid off of the food, moving the table closer to her—and conveniently blocking me from the waist down. I reach for a fork, pushing itinto her hand. “Eat, princess,” I command sharply. “If you won’t take care of yourself, then someone else needs to.”

Estella’s mouth is already open on a retort, but she stops as I say that, her mouth abruptly closing as she presses her lips together.

Don’t look at her lips. Don’t fucking look, Sinclair.

Her mouth is by far one of the most tempting parts of her. Soft and perfectly shaped and so plush and full that I can only imagine how sweet it would feel around my cock. A painful throbbing shoots through my dick just at the thought, and my jaw clenches as I look at Estella.

“Fine, I’ll eat,” she snaps, clearly interpreting my expression as my being angry with her. I hate that, but I can’t exactly explain why that’s wrong. Not without opening up a whole other bunch of questions and problems that we don’t need right now.

Things she never needs to know. And I’ll do my best to keep it that way.

Estella eats every bite. When she’s done, she tosses the silverware down onto the plate, glares at me, and huffs off to the bathroom. A moment later, I hear the running water, and it takes everything in me not to imagine her stripping her clothing off on the other side of that door.

Instead, I grab her tray from dinner and take it downstairs, hoping that the distraction will ease my arousal. When it doesn’t, I duck into the nearest guest bathroom on my way back from the kitchen, locking the door behind me and leaning back against it as I fumble my zipper open with one hand.