Page 75 of Cara

My fingers curl around his forearm.

“I think I’ll go anywhere with you.”

Weightlessness pulls my heavy eyelids apart. Salt clings to the cool breeze as my cheek thumps against a solid chest. Gazing up, moonlight seeps through the thick branches of the sequoia trees overhead, shadowing the sharp marble planes of Xavier’s face. Too tired to insist I walk, that I'm too heavy to carry, my eyes slump shut, appreciating his warmth.

His scent, mingling with the world around us.

Vanilla. Sandalwood. Ocean. Gardenias. Upturned gravel.

He enters the house, leaving the lights off. Around us, thefurniture is tarped with white sheets, the air stifled from lack of movement.

I don’t care about any of it.

Not the endless ocean beyond the floral-draped windows. Not the expensive furnishings or the pictures of his family rested on the fireplace mantel.

Xavier emits a sound when I nuzzle into his shirt, my arms winding around his neck.

For a fleeting moment, before he lays me down on the bed, I let my lips linger on the heat of his throat, simply savoring his presence.

I’m still not entirely sure this isn’t a dream. Any moment now, I could wake up in Reykjavik, jolted from slumber with a bucket of ice.

Grimacing, I shake my head.No, don’t wake up.

He sets me down carefully, ensuring my head rests against the soft, frothy pillow. In the haze, I feel his hands slide off my boots and socks, placing my feet on the blanket.

That drowsiness fades when his weight leaves the bed. My arm stretches to capture his hand. In the dim light, he glances from our hands to my face.

“Don’t leave.”

He shakes his head, bending down beside the bed.

My heart seizes when his finger caresses the edge of my jaw, his dark brows knitted with concern. “Never, Sophie. I never would.”

You’ve been gone. You didn’t come.

The words are there on my tongue. “Xavier.”

“I need to make some calls, tell them where I’ve gone.”

My fingers tense before releasing him, watching him pass through the doorway, bending his head to clear the opening.

Exhaustion doesn’t lure me as it did on the drive over. My feet land on the carpet, taking in the room. A picture of him embracing his mother is on the desk beside a calendar datedten years ago. A stack of baseball cards rests beside a jar of spiraled seashells collected from the beach.

My hands glide along the driftwood frame, absorbing the sight of my husband in his early twenties. He was far from the ruggedly handsome powerhouse he is now, burdened by a sadness evident in every photo scattered throughout this room.

Many mistook his pain for coldness, myself included.

None of us knew he was a prisoner, suffocating under his father’s mighty thumb. His maimed body is a sad reflection of those years when his smile slowly disappeared.

After everything that has happened, seeing the reminder now makes me want to run out to him, forgive the fact that he has seized his father’s throne.

My hand pushes aside the sheer curtain, and I stare out at the man strolling towards the water, his phone raised to his ear. There is so much of him. His vest is open, billowing against the wild wind. His hand drags his hair away from his face as he speaks, no doubt relaying orders and settling business before dealing with this resurfacing of the past.

He’s glad you’re here. You know he is.

My fears are unfounded.

I have to believe that he feels nothing for Bellarosa Barbieri, that he hasn’t found any meaning in this organization that once destroyed both of us. I want to take it back just as I wish it into the void. It’s selfish, utterly wrong to hope he’s found no comfort in my absence.