Page 17

Chapter 17

Fantasia

T he scent of fresh coffee and something warm, buttery, and far too indulgent drifts through the air, tugging me from sleep. For a moment, I'm disoriented- the bed is too soft, the morning light too bright through unfamiliar windows. Then the events of yesterday crash over me in waves: the fight at the motel, our escape to the mountains, and... Piers.

My body is exhausted but sated, heavy with an ache that has nothing to do with my wound and everything to do with the way Piers had held me, touched me, wrecked me in every way I had wanted.

My lips part on a breath as memories surface- Piers’s hands on my hips, his mouth everywhere, his thick voice murmuring my name.

I should feel regret. And maybe some part of me does, deep down, but it’s buried beneath layers of something more poignant. I exhale slowly, rubbing my eyes. This isn’t me. Lingering in bed, savoring a morning. But then again, neither is surrendering to Piers.

This- whatever this is- was inevitable. It always has been.

The words, Did you keep your promise? are playing over and over in my head.

Sixteen years old. Sitting on the roof of Wesley Hall with Piers, staring up at the night sky while the city lights burned in the distance. A plate of golden scones, swiped from the kitchen where Piers had helped Chef Rocco bake them, sat between us- not that either of us ate much. The buttery scent still lingered in the air, rich and comforting, as if the warmth of the oven had followed them with us. The night had been sticky with London’s rare summer heat, and I’d been restless. Something inside me had been shifting, breaking free from childhood wants and tumbling into something much more dangerous.

I had blurted the words out without thinking.

“I don’t want it to be just anyone.”

Piers had been quiet for a long moment, his profile illuminated by the glow of his cigarette as he followed the movement of the clouds. “Yeah?”

“I want to wait,” I admitted, wrapping my arms around my knees. “For someone who actually matters.”

He had gone still beside me. “And who’s that?” he asked, voice low and unreadable.

And I, foolish girl that I was, smirked. “You.”

I didn’t need to see his face to know he was grinning. I felt his finger nudge my bare shoulder, a light shove that had no real force behind it. “Fantasia, you’re too young,” he said, his voice dripping with teasing amusement.

I frowned, turning until his eyes found mine in the dim moonlight. “Then I’ll wait,” I said simply.

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to keep himself from speaking, but in the end, he had reached out, brushing a slow knuckle along my cheek. I held perfectly still, afraid that one wrong move would break the spell.

Finally, his voice rough and almost pained, he whispered, “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Fantasia. You shouldn’t wait for anyone.”

Even then, I had known what I wanted. Even then, I had known it could only be him.

And now, years later, far from the halls of Wesley and the ghosts of our childhood, he’d finally taken me like I always dreamed- like I always needed.

I hadn’t said the words aloud then, and I hadn’t admitted them now, but Piers had been the only boy I ever wanted to claim me. And now, he was the only man I could ever imagine touching me again.

The scent of bacon drags me back to the present. I shift onto my side, wincing at the dull pull of my wound, and glance beside me at the empty bed. Warmth still lingers in the sheets, but Piers is gone.

I push myself upright, hissing as pain radiates from my side. The sheets slip down my body, cool air brushing over my bare skin. My attention snags on the neatly folded clothes at the edge of the bed- my sweats.

I reach for the clothes, slipping the sweatshirt over my head first. I tug the sweatpants on next, wincing as the movement pulls at my sore muscles. Once dressed, I take a slow breath, testing my balance before moving toward the door and head downstairs.

The cabin is quiet, save for the distant hum of a spatula scraping against a pan.

Piers stands at the stove, his hair is still tousled from sleep, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants that ride low on his hips. He moves with an effortless kind of control, flipping slices of bacon before grabbing a plate. The sight of him- broad shoulders shifting, muscles playing beneath tanned skin- does something terrible to my already precarious state of mind.

My stomach knots.

Because this feels dangerously domestic.

His back is to me, but I know he hears me coming when he calls over his shoulder, “Three strips of bacon, one egg scrambled until it’s dry, toast with cherry jam, and absolutely no black pudding. That still sound about right, love?”

I grip the hem of my sweatshirt and step inside, forcing my voice steady. “How do you know I haven’t changed my entire palate in the last year?”

Piers glances at me over his shoulder, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’d put money on the fact that you’re still a picky little princess when it comes to breakfast.”

I scowl, folding my arms. “I am not picky.”

He turns fully toward me, spatula in hand, eyebrows lifting. “Your tea has to be exactly the right steep time. Your eggs have to be ruined beyond recognition. And God forbid there be syrup anywhere near your toast,” he lists on his fingers. “Sounds pretty specific to me.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. Instead, I glance at the plate of food he’s already prepared.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Maybe I haven’t changed that much.” I hesitate, then add, “but it’s not like I’ve had a proper breakfast in the last year anyway.”

Piers’s smirk falters for just a fraction of a second- so quick that if I didn’t know him, I might’ve missed it. But I do know him. And I know exactly what he’s thinking.

Before he can say anything, I aim for distraction. “Where’s Chef Marcel?”

Piers’s expression darkens slightly. He turns back to the stove. “Didn’t let him in.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Can’t let strangers come and go as they please. Not with the way things are.”

Right. Because I’m still a target. Because the outside world hasn’t disappeared just because we hid away in these mountains.

“He had the door cracked open when I got downstairs. I sent him on his way before he could step inside, but he muttered something about coming back tomorrow.”

“Maybe we can give him a pass. We didn’t even get to try his filet mignon.”

“If the man’s this determined to feed us, maybe he isn’t the threat I keep imagining... I’ll probably give in eventually. I can’t be on guard with the cook forever.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. I shouldn’t be amused, but I am. As I step closer, the basket on the island commands my attention, and my eyes widen at the tower of golden, flaky scones.

“Scones?” I murmur, reaching out and running my fingertip along the crisp edge of one. The heat still radiating off it sends a pleasant warmth through my skin.

Before Piers can react, I swipe one from the basket, tearing off a bite-sized piece and popping it into my mouth. The familiar, buttery crumble melts on my tongue, and I hum in appreciation.

“I always did like yours better than Rocco’s,” I say, licking a stray crumb from my thumb.

Piers glances at me. Then, with a shake of his head, he turns back to the stove. “Good to know I’m still better than a Michelin-starred chef.”

I watch him for a moment, the ease with which he moves in the kitchen, the natural way he makes himself at home even though we’ve been here for less than a day. Something about it unsettles me. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s still effortlessly fitting himself into my life whether I like it or not.

Piers finishes plating our food and sets a dish in front of me before grabbing his own. “Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the patio door. “Let’s eat outside.”

I don’t argue. The last thing I want to do is give him a reason to pry more than he already does. I follow him onto the deck, the wood warm beneath my feet, the scent of pine thick in the air. The morning air is crisp and clean as we settle onto the wraparound porch, where a small iron table awaits. The mountain peaks are shrouded in early morning mist, and the expanse of the mountains stretches far and wide like we’re the only people left in the world. The view is breathtaking- and overwhelming in its vastness.

I’m halfway through my eggs when Piers leans back in his chair, watching me closely. “So,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “What now?”

I pause mid-bite.

“What do you mean?” I ask, setting my fork down, though I already know what he’s asking.

“Your brother’s plan for you is in pieces. No one’s pulling your strings anymore.” He puts his coffee mug down and takes a bite of his toast. “You’re the master of your own destiny, Fantasia. What do you want?”

Piers waits, his body unnervingly still. His eyes lock onto mine, steady and unrelenting. He always had a way of getting under my skin, an ability to sift through my pride and my armor like none of it even mattered.

Because, to him, it never did.

And the question is so simple, so direct, but it slams into me like a freight train. Because I don’t know. I never have.

My mother's careful manipulations surface first: how she forged me into a weapon against the Warwicks, feeding me stories of their cruelty until hate flowed as naturally as breath. Then my brother's betrayal- deeming me something to be fixed, shipped overseas like damaged goods he could discard and forget.

I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of Piers’s gaze. I look away, staring out at the endless stretch of mountains, and something unexpected clicks into place.

For once, there are no walls to cage me in. No legacy to protect. No throne to fight for. No family to please. Everything that had once held me together- my mother’s whispered ambitions, my father’s inevitable dismissal, Achilles’s expectations- has dissolved like smoke in this thin alpine air.

No one is telling me who I have to be.

No one is telling me who not to be.

The realization is unsettling in its weightlessness.

I don’t have an empire anymore, but maybe, for the first time, I have... freedom.

The thought is terrifying.

And I have no idea what to do with that.

“Why do you care so much?” The question tears out of me, raw and unguarded. “After everything I did, everything I tried to do to you- why are you still here?”

His green eyes seize mine, relentless. Everything in me screams to break contact, but I stand my ground, pinned by that emerald fire.

“How have you not figured that out yet?” he asks softly.

My heart thunders in my chest. I want to run, to hide from the raw sincerity in his eyes. But where can I go? We're alone up here, miles from anywhere. There’s nowhere to escape, no distractions to drown in. Just me, him, and this question I can’t answer.

“I-” I stare down at my half-eaten breakfast, my appetite deserting me. “I don't know what I want.”

Piers reaches a hand across the table, “that's okay,” his fingers brushing mine. “I'm happy to wait as long as you need while you figure it out.”

“And if I never do?”

“Then we'll figure something else out.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “Together.”

Piers gestures to my coffee, which I've been clutching like a lifeline. “You haven't asked for anything stronger,” he observes.

I almost laugh at how transparent I must be to him. “I've thought about it every minute,” I admit. “Every second. God, even the wine the chef left yesterday... I crave it.” The confession settles in my stomach like lead.

“That's because addiction is a sickness, not a personality flaw,” Piers says quietly. “It'll take time, but-”

“But I can't want it forever?” I interrupt bitterly.

His eyes catch mine. “No. But you can want something else more.”

I think about that, about his earlier question of what I want for my future. About the weight that lifted from my shoulders when he said I could take my time figuring it out. About how, impossibly, wonderfully, he keeps choosing to be here with me.

My hands shake a little as I set down my coffee cup. “When I'm drinking, everything feels... muted. Easier to handle. But last night-” Heat rises to my cheeks, but I push through. “Last night I felt everything. And it wasn't terrible.”

“No,” Piers agrees, his voice rough. “It wasn't terrible at all.”

I take a deep breath of mountain air, letting it fill my lungs. “I think... I think I'd like to feel things again. Even the hard things. I just don't know if I'm strong enough.”

“You are,” he says simply. “But you don't have to be strong alone anymore.”

The faith in his voice makes my throat tight. I remember all the times I sat alone in Wesley Hall, drinking to dull the pain of isolation, of failure, of loss. But I'm not alone anymore.

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Piers seems to understand anyway. He pushes back from the table and holds out his hand.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get that gauze changed, and then maybe we can play some chess. I’ll let you win- if you're lucky.”

I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet, knowing full well I’m about to decimate him… luck has nothing to do with it.