Page 22

Chapter twenty-two

Levana

Frosted morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the canopy of his four-poster bed. The carved wood is dark and polished, the posts heavy and sturdy, and the pillows are impossibly fluffy. The sheets are so damn soft, cream-coloured and clean. They smell faintly like laundry powder and something else. Something sharp and familiar. Cloves. Patrick.

I sit up slowly, dragging the blanket up around my shoulders as I glance around.

I spot his wife immediately. She’s in the jewellery box on the dresser, the row of old perfume bottles, the neat stack of books on the bedside table. Little details that aren’t Patrick—soft things, delicate things. They don’t overpower the room, but they’re still there. Ghosts of someone else’s life.

There’s a small stack of clothes resting at the foot of the bed.

A pair of sweatpants, one of Patrick’s thick sweaters, and some socks.

I pull them on slowly, then hug my arms around myself, before sinking back onto the edge of the bed.

For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the delicate embroidery in the curtains as I let the warmth settle in.

But it doesn’t last.

Yesterday’s memories creep back in. Elliot’s devastated face won’t leave my head. I dreamt about him all night, flashes of him breaking through the fog of sleep. His shaky voice. The way he’d covered himself up with the blanket, like he was trying to disappear. The look on his face when I told him to stay, like I’d just torn something out of him.

My chest tightens, cracking open all over again like someone’s pressing their fist right through my ribs.

Stop thinking about it. Stop. Think about something else.

Patrick.

Where is he?

The carpet in the hallway is soft beneath my feet, a warm beige with faint patterns that ripple delicately like water. The walls are a soft, muted grey, but not cold, like it’s been chosen, not just slapped on.

A low lamp glows from a side table, throwing out soft amber light. There’s a glass of water beside it, half full, a ring of condensation still clinging to the side. Probably something Patrick set down and didn’t bother moving.

The staircase curves gently beneath me, and the bannister’s smooth beneath my hand, worn down by years of small, unconscious touch.

I pause halfway down.

Music drifts up from below, soft and tinny in a weirdly melancholy way.

Most of what he listens to is grainy old records with velvet voices and that slow, dreamy rhythm people used to fall in love to. I’ve always thought it fit him perfectly, and somehow, it fits into this house even better.

It gets louder as I move toward the kitchen, and I spot him.

He’s standing by the window, staring out at the lazy drifts of snow, one hand curled around a mug, the other resting loosely on the counter. He’s in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, barefoot, hair slightly messy like he hasn’t been awake long.

The kitchen suits him like the whole house does. The walls are painted forest green and the counters and cabinets are dark wood, worn at the edges. There are shelves too, packed with mismatched mugs, some plain, some chipped, one with a faded cartoon character grinning from the side.

I hadn’t really noticed any of it yesterday. I couldn’t. I’d spent most of the evening pressed into Patrick’s chest, crying until my head throbbed and my body felt empty. He’d just held me, letting me fall apart without asking for explanations.

For a second, I just watch him in his space.

He looks different. Not sad exactly, but lonely, in a way that feels unfamiliar. Like this house, with all its warmth and comfort, only makes it worse. Like it’s too much space for one person to fill.

He spends so much time alone here, walking through these rooms with no one else to talk to, no one to share the quiet with.

A family home that’s waiting for its family.

The thought makes my heart constrict.

“Patrick?” I say as softly as I can, trying not to startle him, but it doesn’t work.

He jumps slightly, turning with a sharp breath, eyes wide. But the second he sees me, his face softens.

“Hey,” he says, setting his mug down. “Morning. You okay?”

He smiles at me and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle.

Oh, fuck.

Something flutters low in my belly, but I swallow it down and cross the space between us.

The second I’m close enough, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me. His chest is warm against my cheek, and I let myself sink into it, soaking him in.

Then he tilts my face up, and presses a soft kiss to my mouth.

His lips are warm, slow, patient. Like he’s waiting for me to fall into it, waiting for me to catch up to him.

But my head’s spinning, and all I can think is…

Should I be doing this? Here? In his family home?

My eyes flick to the window, then the doorway, like someone might walk in at any second, like the walls are watching.

He must feel me hesitate because he pulls back just a little, just enough to whisper against my lips, “Levana. Kiss me.”

He meets me again, deepening the kiss until it’s all heat and hunger. He groans low in his throat, and his hands drop to my ass, digging in, hard.

I gasp, but he swallows it down, pulling me in until I’m flush against him, until I can feel him pressing against my stomach through our clothes.

Instinct takes over, and my hips shift, rolling against him, dragging over every inch.

“Yeah,” his breath stumbles. “Just like that.”

My fingers slip beneath the waistband of his sweats, and pre-come spreads across my fingers as I wrap my hand around his cock.

“Fuck,” he rasps. His breath stumbles, sharp and uneven, and his hips buck just enough to push deeper into my fist.

I twist my wrist on the next stroke, dragging my thumb over the slick head, and he chokes out a curse, tightening his grip on my ass.

“Fuck, Levana,” His voice is strained, and he tilts my chin up, dipping his head low, so he can trail hot, messy kisses along my jaw. “You keep doing that, and I’m not gonna last.”

But he doesn’t stop me—just groans deeper, fucking his cock into my hand harder and faster.

I don’t know if it’s his need or my own desperation for him, but out of nowhere, my brain’s knocked sideways, and the room tilts under my feet. I blink hard, trying to clear it, but my vision fuzzes at the edges, like I’m looking through fogged glass.

“Whoa, whoa—okay, okay.” His hands catch my arms, steadying me as I sway.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, even though my tongue feels too thick in my mouth. “Yeah, I’m… I just…”

“Here,” he says, already guiding me toward the kitchen table. “Sit down.”

He eases me down into the chair like I’m made of glass, one hand on my shoulder as he crouches in front of me.

“Shit,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “I’m sorry. I should’ve fed you before I let you— fuck. I’m sorry.”

He’s up and pacing now, one hand dragging through his hair, the other planted on his hip. His face is tight, like he’s pissed at himself.

“It’s my own fault,” I tell him. “I haven’t been looking after myself properly.”

He shakes his head, still pacing. “No, I should’ve, I dunno, brought you some breakfast or—”

“Patrick.” I reach out and grab his wrist as he passes me. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. Just sit tight.”

He steps away, and I stay still, trying to catch up with myself. My head’s heavy, my body dragging like I’m moving through syrup.

I press my fingers into my temples, eyes slipping closed for a minute.

He’s muttering something under his breath to himself that I can’t make out, but he returns a few minutes later, setting a glass down in front of me, then a plate, piled with a few slices of toast.

“Here,” he says, nudging the glass closer as he sits down. “Drink first.”

“You didn’t have to make me food,” I murmur.

“Yes. I did.”

He brushes my hair back from my face, fingers pressing to my forehead like he’s checking for a fever.

“Hmm. You’re burning up.” His hand lingers for a second longer before he sighs. “You wanna watch films and cuddle today?”

I almost smile, but it doesn’t last. The weight in my chest’s too heavy.

“I really need to figure out what to do with the whole Elliot thing,” I mumble.

Patrick’s face tightens for a second, but he quickly smooths it away, brushing his thumb over my arm like he’s grounding himself there.

“Well,” he says carefully, “I said you could stay here for the time being, right?”

I nod.

“So I say give him two or three days. At the most. Then we go from there, okay?”

I blink at him, surprised at how reasonable that sounds for someone who hates Elliot so much.

“But for now,” he adds. “You need to rest. You’re sick from something. Stress, exhaustion, I don’t know. But I know you’re not gonna get better by worrying about him right now. So relax, and let me take care of you, okay?”

After half a day of him doing exactly that, we’re curled up on his couch. It’s one of those big, oversized ones you sink right into, with cushions that swallow you whole and a ridiculously plush blanket draped over the back that smells just like him.

There’s a fire going in the hearth—real flames, casting soft flickers across the blackened bricks.

It’s so warm. So cosy. I think I could stay here forever and never complain another day in my life.

Patrick insisted on putting on some old school black and white movie, the kind where everyone talks too fast and the background music’s just a little too dramatic. I’d rolled my eyes when he told me it was ‘the best thing I’ll ever watch,’ but honestly… it’s not too bad.

His arm’s around me, fingers tracing lazy circles against my shoulder. I tilt my head back slightly, looking up at him. He’s staring at the screen with this soft, sweet smile on his face, like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

How the hell did Elliot ever think this guy was dangerous?

Patrick, with his endless patience, warm hands, and steady voice. Patrick, who’s spent the whole day making sure I was okay, making sure I felt safe and warm and looked after. In fact, Patrick who’s looked after me for months—always there, always checking in, always making sure I felt… better. Better than anyone else ever has. He’s been nothing but sweet, even when I didn’t deserve it, even when I’ve been overwhelmed and distant and awful.

Today’s been the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks. No pressure, no arguments, no awkward silences full of unsaid things. Just the two of us, warm and safe, curled up on his couch like the world couldn’t touch us if it tried.

I’m meant to be with Patrick. He’s everything I need, and honestly, everything I’ve ever wanted.

I’m lucky to have him.

“You’re perfect,” I mumble, barely above a whisper.

He shifts slightly, and his hand slides to my jaw. “What was that?”

Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Nothing.”

His thumb drags gently across the side of my face, eyes locked onto mine.“You’re perfect too, baby. “

My stomach almost jumps out of my body, and my eyes widen.

“You like that, huh?” he says, voice low and velvety now. “Baby?”

Heat blooms in my belly.

“Knew you would,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb against my bottom lip.

I let out a breathy, dazed laugh.

He leans in, just enough for his breath to graze my cheek. “That’s my girl.”

I go into cardiac arrest.

“Holy shit, Patrick. What are you trying to do to me?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His gaze stays locked on mine, steady and unblinking—hazel eyes dark with something I can’t quite name, but feel all the way to my core.

God , this man.

I can’t stop staring at him. At the way he’s looking at me, at the lazy curve of his mouth, at his lips.

Fire licks through me, from head to toe. And before I can stop myself, I kiss him.

He kisses me back, hard and deep like he’s been waiting for it. His hand comes up to the nape of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, holding me there as his tongue sweeps against mine.

Shit. I need more.

I shift and climb onto his lap, straddling him.

“Levana,” he chokes out as his hands catch my waist. “You’re sick. You need to rest.”

I grind down, dragging myself over the thick length of him until his breath stumbles.

“Are you sure about that? Because I don’t care,” I shift my hips again, slow and deliberate, watching his eyes darken. “I need to ride you.”

His fingers flex against me. “How did I get so damn lucky?”

I yank the sweater over my head, tossing it aside, and the moment his eyes land on me, he groans, like the sight of me alone is enough to break him.

“Touch me,” I beg.

His mouth trails down my neck, leaving a messy path of soft kisses along my skin. His breath stumbles as his hands drag up my sides, cupping my breasts.

He dips lower, flicking his tongue over one nipple, and a hiss rips out of me.

He freezes, eyes darting up to meet mine. “Are you okay?”

I nod, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls. “Yeah, just sensitive.”

His grin widens, fingers gripping tighter. “Fuck. Do you want to carry on?”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes. Please.”

“Carry on grinding, baby,” he breathes, trailing his mouth back to my nipple, licking it softly, before his lips close around me.

I do as he says, rolling my hips against him, dragging myself over the hard length straining beneath his sweatpants and mine.

The friction is soft and thick, cotton against cotton, but it sparks hot and sharp underneath it all, each grind sending pulses of pleasure through my clit.

“That’s it…” he rasps, then sucks my nipple harder.

I can barely breathe. All I can do is rock faster, chasing the heat building low in my stomach, desperate to feel more.

“I want to come on your cock,” I gasp, barely able to get the words out. “Please, I need you inside me so bad.”

He groans, low and filthy. “Greedy, dirty girl.”

My clit throbs against the friction, desperate for more. I want it so fucking bad I can’t think straight.

“Yeah,” he groans, breath ragged. “Keep going, baby—just like that—”

The pressure winds so fast I can’t even tell him I’m about to come.

“Oh god, ” I gasp as my orgasm rolls through me, hips stuttering, heat soaking straight through my underwear. The pleasure’s still crashing through me when the words break out of me. “I need more. Christ, I can’t—more—now—”

“Fuck, Levana.”

He flips me onto my back, pinning me to the cushions. My breath stumbles and the sweats are gone, yanked off me in less than a second.

“Patrick—”

“Shut up.” He grabs my thighs, spreading me wide. His eyes rake over me, and he looks damn feral.

Then his mouth is on my pussy. Hot, wet, and relentless. Tongue dragging through my lips, licking me open like he’s starving for it.

“Oh fuck,” I sob, back arching as he groans into me.

His tongue flicks fast and filthy over my clit before he plunges deeper, fingers spreading me wider like he wants to consume every inch.

“You taste so fucking good.” His fingers dig deeper into my thighs, holding me still as he licks harder, pushing me closer to the edge all over again.

“Come on,” he mutters against me. “Give me more.”

His tongue works me until I break, my whole body shaking as my release tears through me. I sob his name, writhing beneath his mouth, fingers clawing at his hair as pleasure floods over me in dizzying waves.

Before I can catch my breath, he’s moving, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a condom.

Did he know this was going to happen? Did he plan this?

Oh fuck , I don’t care right now.

His eyes lock onto mine, and he smirks as he tugs his own sweats off and rolls the condom on.

He grabs my legs, dragging me to the edge of the sofa and lining himself up. He slams inside me in one relentless thrust that knocks the air from my lungs.

“Fuck—” I gasp, clutching at his shoulders as he drives into me, fast and rough. The sofa groans beneath us, every hard snap of his hips making the frame creak and shift.

Through ragged breaths, his hand comes up, cupping my cheek, thumb brushing gently across my skin.

“I love you,” he rasps, voice cracked and raw.

My stomach flips.

He loves me?

Panic flashes white-hot through my veins, and my mind spins wildly.

Do I love him?

God, I think I do.

But what if I’m wrong? What if I say it and it’s not enough, or not the right kind of love, or not forever?

I’ve said the words before. I’ve meant them before. With Violet’s dad. With others. I’ve been in love. But this is something else.

This is safety. This is being cared for even when I haven’t earned it—when I’ve pushed him away, pulled him in—he’s always been there. Quiet and steady, expecting nothing in return.

He’s protected me, even when I didn’t know I needed it. Known what’s best before I did. Waited, without pressure, without resentment.

And now—

The way he’s looking at me.

Like I’m something precious.

Like he’s afraid of losing me.

Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

This isn’t love. Shit. This is everything.

It fills every part of me, terrifying, and completely overwhelming.

But it’s so damn real that tears prick my eyes, and my pulse sets alight.

“Fuck, Patrick,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I love you too.”

His rhythm falters, and his hips still for a second, just long enough for the breath to hitch in his throat. Then he pushes in again, slower this time, deeper.

“Do you mean it?” He asks, pressing his forehead to mine. His eyes are wide, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen.

I nod, breathless. “Yes.”

But he’s still searching, still clinging. “Do you really mean it? Oh god, please tell me you really mean it.”

I slide my hands to his face, fingers framing his jaw,

“I mean it,” I whisper. “I love you.”

He blows out a shaky breath, and when he moves again, it feels so much more intense. Each thrust hits perfectly, and his mouth drags over mine as he kisses me between gritted moans.

“I’m so close,” I whisper.

“Then come for me,” he breathes, cupping the side of my face. “Let go, baby. I love you.”

His other hand slips between us, fingers finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles, and I gasp, hips bucking up. Pleasure washes over me so thick and intense I cry out, moaning curses as my body arches beneath him, thighs trembling, fingers clutching at his arms.

He doesn’t stop. Just keeps on rubbing, eyes locked onto mine.

“Oh god, you feel like heaven,” he groans, tipping his head back.

I hook my leg around his waist, pressing the heel of my foot into the curve of his ass—locking him in, dragging him deeper.

“I can’t take it, I’m gonna—“ His rhythm falters, every thrust rougher and needier, like he’s right on the edge, but he’s trying to drag it out just a second longer.

His hips slam one more time, and his whole body locks, spine arching, abs flexing, a raw groan ripping from his throat as he comes.

His forehead drops to mine, both of us breathless and shaking, bodies still tangled together. His chest rises and falls against mine, his breath warm and uneven as he strokes his hand over my skin like he’s memorising every inch of me.

“I love you,” he says.

I close my eyes, sinking into the warmth of him—into the steady rhythm of his hand and the quiet, broken way he keeps repeating those three words over and over, like he can’t stop himself.

Like he’s been holding them back for too long, and now they’re just pouring out of him, completely raw and unbidden.