Ever since Eden arrived and alerted us to the hunter issue, something has been off. My instincts have been screaming at me for days. We’re missing something critical. I am missing something critical, and I don’t want to fail again. Jaykob may have been crude, but he had a point: I’ve missed too much already.
Perhaps there is a flavor of self-flagellation to my tired vigil, where the sadist in me relishes even my own penance. But a few uncomfortable nights aren’t enough to make up for missing the cameras, or for Eden running off.
And that’s not even to mention my greater failures.
With another heavy sigh, I push myself back over to the desk and rewind one of the videos that has been bothering me. The picture is clear, from yesterday afternoon just before dusk, from a camera just half an hour from Bristlebrook. The trees are sparser here, and there’s a wide view of the forest. A woodpecker with a small yellow patch of feathers above its beak swoops in and perches on a nearby branch. My brow creases.
“Shit, Jasper. Did you even go to bed last night?”
A thousand needles prickle at the nape of my neck, then down my spine to the backs of my legs. Cursing myself inwardly, I glance down at the small screen on the desk which shows the hall and wide-open door. Yet another thing I missed.
I don’t turn, keeping my eyes locked on the tiny woodpecker. Looking at Lucien is always a mistake—one I avoid whenever possible. I don’t need to look, however, to know my seeming indifference slices into him. His hurt is a tangible, sour taste at the back of my tongue. He’s been stiff and uncomfortable around me—almost cold—ever since our conversation in the kitchen, and I can’t blame him for it.
“I’m working, Lucien,” I remind him politely, and rewind the video again, trying to focus on the little bird.
“Oh, sure, but I thought . . . Look, I just think you—”
Lucien huffs, and there’s a strangled, frustrated whine to it that teases at the dark mood I’m in. No matter what constraints I put on myself, hearing charming, chattery Lucien become tongue-tied around me is one of my most secret delights. One that makes my dick stir and thicken instantly, every time.
Unable to resist it now, I turn my chair so I can see him. His cheeks are flushed the exact shade of pink that always makes me want to bite them, and he’s carrying a tray of food, looking like the star of one of my favorite maid and master fantasies.
I wonder if he knows how irresistible he is like this, servicing me so sweetly. Lucien’s desire to please is so natural to him, so wound up in his perfect, innate goodness, I doubt it occurs to him to do it for any other reason than to be kind.
And therein lies the full sting of my Lucien problem. How can I be distant and unfeeling toward someone so deserving?
How much longer can I resist delivering him the pain and control and love he craves, when I so badly crave the deliverance also?
But how can I say yes, when the last tattered shreds of my honor hang on my resistance?
“I made you dinner,” he finishes in a rush, avoiding my eyes. “You, um, you should take a break.”
The painful tempest inside of me decides to batter at my heart, like it might knock it right out of my chest. “You made me dinner,” I repeat softly.
The pink in his cheeks spreads to his ears, and he glances at me. Our gazes tangle, and whatever he sees in mine makes him suck in a shivery breath.
Casually, I cross my legs, hiding my now-insistent interest. His parted lips are a sin unto themselves.
“I made it for Jaykob too,” he mutters defensively. “It’s no big deal.”
Tearing my gaze away is more difficult than I’d like, but I take in the meal he made me. Healthy, the way I like it, simple poached pheasant, a side of grilled vegetables, and . . .
“Kimchi,” I breathe.
I lean forward, taking the tray from him. Stunned, I take a bite and need to stifle a groan. The fermented Korean staple is sour, spicy, and tangy, and it brings with it a rush of homesickness so strong I’m almost dizzy with it. It’s ridiculous, in a way, because I am home. But it’s nostalgia of a different kind—for a time, and certain moments, and people I haven’t seen in far, far too long.
I taste it slowly, rolling the flavors and feelings over my tongue before I swallow. To my surprise, tears prick the back of my eyes.
“Is it okay?” Lucien asks, shifting, after the silence stretches longer than manners call for. “I’ve never made it before, but Eden found the recipe in one of the pantry cupboards and we made it together. We— I mean, she thought you might like it.”
My breath leaves me heavily, caught on the chest-twisting picture of Eden and Lucien working together in the kitchen to make something so sweet and personal just to make me happy. Just because I might like it.
Eden’s brilliant, sharp eyes caress my mind. Her sumptuous hair. Her quick wit and kind concern.
The glorious effortlessness of her submission.
I set the tray onto the desk, needing some distance from their heartless, thoughtful gift.
Damn her. And damn him. I am not a selfless man—they shouldn’t torment me like this.
They should take one another and run far, far away.
Reaching out, I catch Lucien’s wrist, pulling him over to me. He follows easily, that awkward tension in him falling away as soon as I take charge, as it always does. Lucien stands over me, but through that one touch, he’s at my mercy.
The power of it, the heady awareness that I can do anything I want to him, seeps into me. He would let me. He would let me take him to his knees and fuck his pretty mouth until I came down his throat and he would say nothing but thank you. I could pull him into my lap and just hold him, for hours, and he would stay there happily.
Or he would have, before Eden.
Now, I’m not so sure. He indulged my foolish, selfish, impulsive request not to fuck her, and I am both mortified and darkly satisfied that he did. But his patience with me has to be wearing thin, and as much as the psychologist in me tells me it’s for the best, that I should continue backing away, the man in me wants to claim him now. I want to claim them both, to demand their affection and tangle the three of us into such a knot that none of us could ever be unsnarled. I want to undo my hard work, unswear my vows, and abandon my resolution to leave them unbroken.
But that truly would be foolish, not to mention selfish beyond all belief.
His skin is warm under my chilled fingers, and I stroke the vulnerable flesh at his wrist. The pulse there kisses my fingers with swift little presses.
“Thank you both, Lucien.”
I watch his throat bob. Unable to help myself, I link our fingers together and squeeze gently. After a moment, he squeezes back, a dazed expression crossing his face. He leans against the desk, as though needing the support.
“I used to make kimchi with my parents,” I venture in a mild voice, though I know I’m inviting him in when I should be pushing him out. “It was my mother’s recipe, and it was important to her that we all contributed. She said it was like holding our culture in our hands. She left a lot behind when she came here, but she’d joke that some things were sacred. It didn’t matter if we were having bibimbap or caviar, we’d almost always have kimchi as well—and it had to be kimchi that we made ourselves, by hand, together.”