Page 18 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)
I watch, frozen in place, as Elodie retreats down the hall, her nonchalance a stark contrast to the lingering unease thrumming inside me.
You’ll leave me no choice but to destroy you.
The echo of her words sends an icy shiver spiraling through me. It’s only when I’m safely ensconced in my room that I finally breathe.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful to return to this space. These walls, the plush canopy bed, the classic works of art I’ve chosen, offer a much-needed respite, a semblance of normalcy on a day that’s been anything but.
I lean against the door, caught in a swirl of emotions—a gnawing hunger jabbing at my belly, a heavy exhaustion weighing down my limbs, and a budding panic brought on by Elodie’s threat—when the unexpected sound of Braxton’s voice pierces the silence, snapping me back to the present.
“Tasha?”
My heart leaps. I whirl around. And there he stands, eyes brimming with a potent mix of relief and longing that mirrors my own.
In an instant, the distance between us vanishes, as his arms wrap around me, pulling me into a strong yet gentle embrace.
“Braxton…” My voice, barely more than a breath, quivers against the curve of his neck. I draw him closer, clinging to him like a lifeline and filling my lungs with his scent—a soothing blend of comfort and home, uniquely his. “Braxton, I—”
Gently, he cradles my face in his hands, pulling back just enough for our eyes to meet. There’s so much I need to tell him, so much I need him to tell me, but first, I owe him a massive apology.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice trembling. His eyes search mine, and I recall the heartbreak in them when he found me on the launchpad not long after I’d promised complete honesty and transparency. “I shouldn’t have lied,” I continue. “And while I could give you a list of reasons, there’s no point. What matters is that I hurt you and gave you a reason to never trust me again. If you can’t forgive me, I understand. I’m not sure I can forgive myself, either.”
“Tasha…” His voice is barely a whisper as his gaze rests on mine. “It was awful watching you go. And yes, I was hurt that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. But mostly, I’m just so glad you’re back and that you’re okay.” His words vibrate with relief and a deep-seated yearning. “Did you get what you needed?” he asks.
Instead of answering, I pull away and lift my arm, revealing the luminous gold circle now marking my flesh.
He inhales sharply, his eyes widening as he traces the curving line with a gentle finger. But there’s a flicker of unease in his gaze, like a storm cloud passing over the sun.
“It should’ve been me,” he says, his voice loaded with regret. “I should’ve gone back, found my dad, completed my training, and come up with a plan. Instead, I let myself get seduced by this place, by the ease and comfort we have here. I feel like I should be apologizing to you.”
“But you did seek help, didn’t you?” I say, then tell him about the vision I saw of him holding the pocket watch.
At first, I worry he’ll find it intrusive. I mean, I’m basically admitting to spying on him. But his expression softens, and he says, “I spoke with my grandfather. Unfortunately, we didn’t get very far before Arthur showed up. Do you think Elodie knew and tricked us into thinking he’d be away longer?”
I shake my head. “She seemed genuinely surprised when I told her.”
Our eyes meet again, and though there’s still so much more to say, more to share, the need to remain close, to preserve this intimate connection, overpowers everything.
As though reading my mind, he pulls me to him and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, my eyelids, and finally the tip of my nose—the gestures both tender and fierce.
I melt against his chest, feeling his embrace tighten, enveloping me in a cocoon of protection and reassurance. In this moment of stillness, we stand locked in each other’s arms, the chaos and uncertainty of the world beyond these walls fading away, leaving me cloaked in a sense of peace so profound, I vow to reclaim every moment we’ve lost, starting now.
“Braxton,” I say, just as he whispers my name. “You first,” I laugh softly, my gaze searching the depths of his.
“I read your note.” His eyes hold mine, those deep ocean depths revealing a world of emotions.
A warm blush creeps up my cheeks, recalling the raw honesty of the words I wrote.
“And I love you, too,” he confesses, his voice steady, resonant. “I always have and suspect I always will.”
His words instantly dissolve as he captures my lips in a kiss so fervent and deep, it resonates through every fiber of my being. Our tongues swirl, our bodies press and meld; the promise of a perfect fit is so tantalizingly close, yet still thwarted by too many stubborn layers between us.
“I don’t want to wait any longer,” I whisper feverishly against his lips. “I don’t want to wait for someplace more special. This moment is all we truly have, and it’s more than enough.”
Braxton pulls back slightly, his dark blue gaze searching mine. “Are you sure?” he asks, the tenderness in his voice contrasting with the heated need smoldering in his eyes.
I trace a finger lightly along the slight bend of his nose, a charming imperfection in a face so flawless it looks as though it were sketched by Leonardo da Vinci himself.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” I say, my voice thick with emotion and an unquenched desire to finally be with him, to truly know him in the way that I’ve dreamed of.
In an instant, my wind-and-rain-soaked jacket falls to my feet. My borrowed T-shirt is next, swiftly followed by the whispering slide of my jeans. The room crackles with an electric charge, as Braxton’s gaze roams the length of me, awe and desire intermingling in his eyes.
“My God,” he says, his voice thick with wonder. “How did I ever get so lucky?”
Gently lifting his T-shirt over his head, I silence his words. When his jeans join mine on the floor, I reach out to him, pulling him so close, a shared shiver runs through us.
“Tasha,” he exhales, his voice threaded with longing and a tinge of disbelief. Finally, we find ourselves here, in a moment that feels like we’ve waited several lifetimes for.
Together, we move toward the bed where he gently lays me onto the sheets and settles his body over mine. Our kisses deepen, growing more fervent—a dance of longing and need, of dreams deferred but never forgotten.
He unhooks my bra and flings it to the floor. Then lowering his head, he draws me into his mouth, eliciting a feeling so sweet, so intense, I’m sure I’m about to rocket right off the bed.
I reach down to find him, confirming he’s more than ready for this. “There’s a condom in the drawer,” I say, watching as he retrieves it, rips into the package, and fits it onto himself.
“Tasha,” he groans, his fingers curling around the lace band of my underwear. “You have no idea how much I want this—how much I want you.”
I respond with an arch of my back, a roll of my hips, and a kiss so deep it leaves no doubt that we’re finally about to cross this invisible threshold into a new realm of intimacy.
With my underwear discarded, Braxton centers his hips over mine. I draw a sharp, anticipatory breath, bracing for this long-awaited moment of connection, when a sudden series of loud, insistent dings shatters the silence.
Braxton freezes, his glazed eyes meeting mine in a shared moment of confusion. The spell that bound us just a moment before is now broken by the all-too-familiar intrusion of the reality of living at Gray Wolf—a harsh reminder that even here, in our most private moments, we are never truly alone.
“Ignore it,” I plead, desperately trying to pull him back to me and reclaim the moment when we were so frustratingly close.
“Would if I could,” he mutters, a weighted note of regret in his tone. With a reluctant sigh, he rolls away as the ding sounds once more, an insistent electronic chorus that refuses to be silenced.
As he reaches for the slab on my nightstand, I sink back against the headboard, my gaze tracing the contours of his form, pausing on the stark white strip of bandages that mark the back of his head and the side of his neck.
A swell of guilt and shame surges within me, tightening its iron grip around my heart. Those bandages serve as a glaring reminder of a suffering I’m responsible for, and I still can’t believe how misguided I was to be swayed by Killian’s lies over Braxton’s truths.
“What does he want?” I ask, voice heavy with apprehension, already dreading the answer.
Braxton, his expression fraught with tension, hands me the slab. With a deep breath, I brace myself as I read Arthur’s inspirational quote of the day. The selection sends a cold wave of foreboding rippling through me:
He who controls the past controls the future.
He who controls the present controls the past.
– George Orwell, 1984
The words linger in the air, heavy with implication. Arthur’s choice of Orwell’s quote—a novel depicting a world of absolute totalitarian control, where even thoughts aren’t free—feels like a veiled warning. A not-so-subtle hint that he knows far more than he’s letting on. His awareness of our actions, perhaps even our intentions, looms over us like a silent observer lurking in the background.
“Anything else?” I ask, returning the slab.
Braxton shakes his head and places the tablet back on the nightstand. “Just that,” he says, his voice grim.
I let out a slow breath, determined to steady myself. “What are we going to do?” I ask, my voice edged with worry. Arthur’s omnipresence in our lives feels like a shackle, binding us to a reality we both long to escape. I have no idea of how we’ll ever manage to stop him, much less break free.
Braxton looks at me, his eyes reflecting an uncertainty that mirrors my own. “We’ll figure it out,” he says firmly. “Together.”
This time, when he reaches for me, I fold into his arms, seeking his comfort. He kisses me again, starting at my forehead and working his way down. When his mouth finds mine, I start to slide down the bed, taking him with me, when my phone begins to ring.
“Noooo!” I fling my head back against the pillows. “What now? What could he possibly—”
The ring sounds again, seemingly louder this time. Braxton reaches over, lifts the receiver from the cradle, and hands it to me.
Arthur’s voice barks in my ear, “Natasha. Good, you’re there. I’ve had breakfast sent to your room. Meet me in my office as soon as you’re finished. There will be an escort waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs.”
No sooner does the call end than a knock sounds at the door, and a male voice calls out, “Natasha Antoinette Clarke, your breakfast is here.”