Page 24 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)
I wake before dawn.
The augmented reality lenses, now abandoned on the nightstand, have taken with them the vivid sunflowers and irises, the golden wheat fields, and Van Gogh’s swirling, star-filled skies.
Gone, too, is the fleeting, horrific vision of the hollow-eyed skull that momentarily replaced Braxton’s face.
In their absence, the room reverts to Braxton’s signature moody aesthetic: walls painted a deep charcoal, aged leather couch, and a collection of dark themed art, including Caravaggio’s Narcissus and Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare— each piece casting its own display of shadow and intrigue.
Stepping quietly from the bed, I leave Braxton to his dreams and make for the shower.
The warm water cascading over me is exactly the balm I need after a night that transcended all expectations. Our connection, so deep and full, has rendered me tender in the very best way. Though it wasn’t my first time, last night opened a whole new realm of experience, infusing me with an overwhelming sense of love and belonging. Just thinking about those intimate moments makes my heart overflow, leaving no doubt that Braxton is my everything, as I am his.
Another flash of that pale-boned skull flits across the canvas of my mind—a harsh and brutal reminder that last night is gone. Now it’s time for Braxton and me to talk, to come up with a strategy so we can plot our next moves before Arthur sends me out to locate the Star, with either Elodie or Killian riding shotgun.
With a towel draped around me, I wander into Braxton’s large walk-in closet. Unwilling to face the prospect of slipping back into last night’s dress, I search through stacks of the most high-end loungewear money can buy, looking for an old pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt I can borrow. Just as I find what I’m looking for, Braxton comes up from behind me.
Encircling his arms at my waist, he presses a single, sweet, tantalizing kiss to the side of my neck. “Come back to bed,” he coaxes, his body enticingly warm, his voice an invitation, hinting at all the possibilities awaiting my consent.
I pause, tempted to follow him anywhere. Then turning to face him, I trace the tip of my finger along that perfectly imperfect bend in his nose. “Wish I could,” I say.
“No need for wishes,” he counters, sealing his words with a soft kiss on my forehead. “Here, in our sanctuary, there is literally no one to stop us from doing what we want. Inside this room, we make our own rules.”
If only that were true.
“No one to stop us except Arthur,” I say. “Oh, and Elodie, of course. And let’s not forget Killian, who’s somehow managed to make a miracle of a return.” I sigh, the weight of those names dragging me back into a reality far removed from the blissful escape of last night.
The light in Braxton’s eyes instantly fades, casting a dim gray pall that reminds me of turbulent, storm-tossed waters roiling beneath an unsettled sky. He runs a hand through his hair, his voice tinged with resignation. “How about this?” he says. “You get the coffee going, I’ll take a quick shower, and then we’ll sit down and figure things out.”
After I’ve relayed an abbreviated version of everything that transpired when we were apart—the time spent with my dad, reuniting with Song, my brief glimpse into Arthur’s plans for remaking the world—Braxton fixes me with a look, and says, “You should meet up with Killian.” His words are so unexpected, I nearly spit out my coffee.
“You can’t be serious?” I sink deeper into the soft, worn leather of his couch, disbelief etching my tone. “After everything I just said—that’s what you choose to focus on?”
A shadow of deep discomfort crosses Braxton’s face as he shifts uneasily in his seat. “Look,” he says, “I’m glad Song and Anjou are safe. I’m glad your time with your dad was well spent. As for Arthur’s plans, while it’s certainly alarming to know he’s going to eliminate large groups of people and erase entire timelines, it’s not one bit surprising. Arthur curates. It’s what he’s always done. But now, it’s up to us to find a way to stop him. And while I’m not at all thrilled by the idea of you meeting with Killian, he does work closely with Arthur, so who knows what you might learn? Also, there is wisdom in the adage about knowing your enemy.”
“That’s from Sun Tzu’s The Art of War , ” I find myself saying, the words pulled from the secret well of knowledge hidden inside me. “Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster.” The familiarity of the quote surprises me as much as it does Braxton. “I don’t know how I know that. It just came to me.”
Braxton gives me a look that straddles the line between admiration and concern. “Seems like the visit with your dad really did make an impact.”
I trace the rim of my coffee mug with my finger before taking a sip. “Yeah, but so far, it’s mostly just quotes and random facts about art, nothing that feels like it’ll be of much help. Though my dad did say I need to trust that it’s there and that it’ll come to me when I need it the most.”
Braxton sighs. “Well, at least there’s some thread of hope. I’m still kicking myself for wasting so much time with my grandfather—questioning the true nature of destiny and time.”
“Did you learn anything?”
He rakes a hand through his hair, his eyes locking onto mine with a mix of revelation and frustration. “I learned that Arthur is responsible for my grandfather’s death, as well as my father’s.” His jaw clenches with anger, eyes darkening with the weight of his past.
“And what became of your mother?” I ask, realizing I don’t really know much about Braxton’s history.
He scrubs a hand over his face, sighing deeply before taking a sip of his coffee. “After my father passed, we moved to Boston, where she had some distant relations. It was not an easy life, and it’s there that Arthur found me. I made the same deal as you. I agreed to go with him, if he looked after her.”
“Did you ever go back, to check on her?”
“Once,” he says, his voice strained, eyes clouding over with a memory. “From what I could see, he kept his word. But what I don’t understand is why he wants two Timekeepers under his roof.”
“I’m guessing it’s like the royal tradition of having an heir and a spare. Now that he knows he needs us to not only find the Antikythera’s missing pieces, but to bring them back safely, he wants a backup in case something should happen to one of us. It probably explains why he never lets us Trip together.”
“Makes sense.” Braxton nods, the tension in his shoulders easing a bit.
“Did you manage to speak with your grandfather again?” I ask. “You know, after Arthur left?”
“Complete silence,” he says, his lips twisting in frustration. “For some reason, the watch wouldn’t summon him.”
I release a defeated exhale. “Okay, so what now?” I ask. “My dad says we should figure out why Arthur is doing all this. What’s driving his need to go to these lengths to rule over time?”
“Because he’s the ultimate control freak?” Braxton suggests.
“That’s definitely part of it,” I agree. “But there’s got to be more to it. Maybe something from his past that continues to haunt him. If we can figure out his weakness, we might find a way to stop him. I mean, do we even know the true story of how Arthur became who he is?”
“Probably not.” Braxton frowns. “But digging into Arthur’s past isn’t easy. I’m sure I’ve read every article and interview ever written about him, and it’s always the same story. He’s meticulous about sticking to the script.”
“Which means he’s hiding something.”
“In this world where we see only what he wants us to, discovering the truth won’t be easy.”
We fall into a contemplative silence. Finally Braxton speaks up. “You’ve seen the Mechanism. Exactly how many pieces are left?”
I lift my gaze to the ceiling, calling up a mental image of the last time Arthur showed it to me. “There are loads of pieces still out there,” I say. “More planets to find, not to mention all the gears and dials and the protective case. At this rate, it’s at least a year or two away, maybe more.”
A year or two of living in luxury, traveling through time, honing my skills, maybe sneaking in another visit or two to my dad, and all the while I get to love Braxton. There are worse ways to pass the time.
“In the meantime,” Braxton says, drawing me back to the present, “we should start putting out feelers, see who might be willing to help us.”
“There’s not a single instructor we can count on,” I say. “Keane, Hawke, and Roxane—their livelihoods depend on Arthur. As for the support staff…” I briefly consider Freya, who cleans my room; Charlotte, who outfits me for my Trips; and even Killian’s friend Maisie, who works as a barmaid at the Hideaway Tavern. But I quickly rule them out. “Pretty much all of them have access to the book. They can come and go as they please. And yet…”
Braxton steadily sips from his coffee, waiting for me to finish my thought.
“We can definitely count on Mason,” I say, confident he won’t need much convincing to join us.
Braxton rests his mug against his chin, and even though I can see only the top half of his face, his skepticism is plain. “You sure about that?” He lifts a quizzical brow. “Because from what I saw last night, he made Blue.” Braxton leans forward, setting his coffee on the table before us. “And I got the impression that he’s very excited by the prospect. Not to mention he doesn’t much like me.”
“He doesn’t need to like you,” I say, confident that Mason is the one person, besides Braxton, that I can fully rely on. “Don’t forget,” I remind him, “Mason and I share a long history. And unlike the rest of us here, he came from a nurturing home, raised by a grandmother who loved him and looked after him. He had ambitions, goals he was actively working toward. He was on his way to achieving those dreams, when unfortunately, Arthur intervened.”
“Or, more accurately, Arthur made me intervene.” Braxton’s face is glum, his voice carrying a note of bitterness.
I edge closer, place a hand on his thigh, and give it a reassuring squeeze. “You know I don’t blame you for that,” I say. “And neither does Mason. He’s moved past it.”
Braxton leans his head back, casting a gaze to the coffered ceiling above. “All right, so that makes you, me, and Mason. That’s our lineup. Not exactly a formidable team.”
“But it’s a start,” I insist, determined to stay positive. “As for everyone else…” I pause, biting my lower lip. “Oliver and Finn might be willing to help.”
Braxton shoots me another skeptical look. “They had their chance to leave when they got hold of the book. Yet they chose to stay put.”
“I think they got scared,” I say. “In their defense, the magick is unstable, and…” My voice fades. There’s no point in continuing when I can see from Braxton’s frown that he’s not buying a word of it.
“And what makes you think they won’t be scared to partake in whatever plan we manage to hatch?” he asks.
Though I must admit there’s logic to what he just said, I’m not quite willing to give up on the idea. “What about Jago?” I prompt.
Braxton dismiss the notion with a wave of his hand. “Jago’s living it up—totally embracing everything Gray Wolf Academy has to offer. Have you ever Tripped with that guy?”
I nod that I have, reminding him how I was paired with him and Elodie on my first Trip to 1745 Versailles.
“He’s in his element,” Braxton goes on, shaking his head. “Loves every bit of it. And, I must admit, he’s a natural. Both women and men practically throw themselves at him, eagerly offering up all their art and jewels in the hope he’ll agree to grace their beds. Besides, isn’t he still involved with Elodie?”
Catching Braxton’s eye, memories of his own history with Elodie flood my mind, causing a sharp stab of jealousy that instantly reopens the wound I was sure I’d already healed. It’s a feeling I despise in myself. It makes me feel petty, silly, and small. Leaving me to wonder if I’ll ever fully reconcile the fact that Braxton, much like me, was once vulnerable enough, lonely enough, and desperate enough to be seduced by Elodie’s glittering facade.
Sensing the sudden shift in my mood, Braxton tips a finger to the underside of my chin. “Hey there,” he says, voice soft with concern. “What just happened? What is this?”
He tilts my face until I’m looking at him, and in this awkward, embarrassing moment, I’m painfully aware that my eyes shine too brightly, my cheeks burn too hot, betraying my inner turmoil, the shame my pathetic jealousy has unleashed.
How can I still be feeling this way—reacting this way—when I’m supposedly deemed powerful enough, enlightened enough, to take down the great Arthur Blackstone?
Clearly, my father must be mistaken, seeing as how nothing has changed. I’m still the same old, grudging—
Braxton leans in, pulls me close to his chest, and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. The gesture so kind, so full of empathy and understanding, my self-incriminating thoughts instantly disappear as I melt deeper into his arms.
It’s in this instant, while I’m enveloped in his warmth, that I remember how I did something much worse to him.
How just a few days ago, back in Renaissance Italy, I abandoned Braxton, leaving him wounded, bleeding, and alone, so I could run off with Killian, the golden-haired liar.
“I’m sorry,” I say, finding his gaze. Though I’ve already apologized, confessed all my sins, was it really enough? Could it ever erase what I’ve done?
“Don’t,” Braxton whispers, soothing my brow with a caring sweep of his lips. “We can’t continue to beat ourselves up for what’s already past. All we can do now is move forward. You and me, together.”
This time when we collide, there’s a tender fragility to our union that was absent last night. Instead of our bodies crushing and crashing and devouring as though we could never quite taste enough, feel enough, get deep enough, this time we meld into each other in a slow, languorous burn.
“I love you,” he whispers, maneuvering me until I’m settled astride him.
I gaze down at his beautiful face, my heart bursting with affection for him; I grip his shoulders and slowly lower myself.
“Tasha—” he groans, my name fading into a long, tortured sigh.
I press a finger to his lips, quieting him, before leaning in to replace it with a deep, stirring kiss.
“And I love you,” I say, searing the words into his mouth, into his soul, as the two of us become one with each other.