I’m sitting in the dark with my back to the bedroom door when I hear it open. It’s only midafternoon, but I’ve been sitting here, staring at these unopened boxes for so long that even the sun, it seems, has grown tired of staring.
Castle’s revelation left me in a daze.
I still don’t trust Castle—don’t trust that he has any idea what he’s talking about—but at the end of our conversation I couldn’t shake a terrible, frightening feeling in my gut begging for verification. I needed time to process the possibilities. To be alone with my thoughts. And when I expressed as much to Castle, he said, “Process all you like, son, but don’t let this distract you. Juliette should not be meeting with Haider on her own. Something doesn’t feel right here, Mr Warner, and you have to go to them. Now. Show her how to navigate your world.”
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Despite my every instinct to protect her, I won’t undermine her like that. She didn’t ask for my help today. She made a choice to not tell me what was happening. My abrupt and unwelcome interruption would only make her think that I agreed with Castle—that I didn’t trust her to do the job on her own. And I don’t agree with Castle; I think he’s an idiot for underestimating her. So I returned here, instead, to these rooms, to think. To stare at my father’s unopened secrets. To await her arrival.
And now—
The first thing Juliette does is turn on the light. “Hey,” she says carefully. “What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath and turn around. “These are my father’s old files,” I say, gesturing with one hand. “Delalieu had them collected for me. I thought I should take a look, see if there’s anything here that might be useful.”
“Oh, wow,” she says, her eyes alight with recognition. “I was wondering what those were for.” She crosses the room to crouch beside the stacks, carefully running her fingers along the unmarked boxes. “Do you need help moving these into your office?”
I shake my head.
“Would you like me to help you sort through them?” she says, glancing at me over her shoulder. “I’d be happy t—”
“No,” I say too quickly. I get to my feet, make an effort to appear calm. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
She raises her eyebrows.
I try to smile. “I think I’d like the time alone with them.”
At this, she nods, misunderstanding all at once, and her sympathetic smile
makes my chest tighten. I feel an indistinct, icy feeling stab at somewhere inside of me. She thinks I want space to deal with my grief. That going through my father’s things will be difficult for me.
She doesn’t know. I wish I didn’t.
“So,” she says, walking toward the bed, the boxes forgotten. “It’s been an .
. . interesting day.”
The pressure in my chest intensifies. “Has it?”
“I just met an old friend of yours,” she says, and flops backward onto the mattress. She reaches behind her head to pull her hair free of its ponytail, and sighs.
“An old friend of mine?” I say. But I can only stare at her as she speaks, study the shape of her face. I can’t, at the present moment, know with perfect certainty whether or not what Castle told me is true; but I do know that I’ll find the answers I seek in my father’s files—in the boxes stacked inside this room.
Even so, I haven’t yet gathered the courage to look.
“Hey,” she says, waving a hand at me from the bed. “You in there?” “Yes,” I say reflexively. I take in a sharp breath. “Yes, love.”
“So . . . do you remember him?” she says. “Haider Ibrahim?” “Haider.” I nod. “Yes, of course. He’s the eldest son of the supreme
commander of Asia. He has a sister,” I say, but I say it robotically.
“Well, I don’t know about his sister,” she says. “But Haider is here. And he’s staying for a few weeks. We’re all having dinner with him tonight.”
“At his behest, I’m sure.”
“Yeah.” She laughs. “How’d you know?”
I smile. Vaguely. “I remember Haider very well.”
She’s silent a moment. Then: “He said you’d known each other since your infancy.”
And I feel, but do not acknowledge, the sudden tension in the room. I merely nod.
“That’s a long time,” she says. “Yes. A very long time.”
She sits up. Drops her chin in one hand and stares at me. “I thought you said you never had any friends.”
At this, I laugh, but the sound is hollow. “I don’t know that I would call us friends, exactly.”
“No?”
“No.”
“And you don’t care to expand on that?” “There’s little to say.”
“Well—if you’re not friends, exactly, then why is he here?” “I have my suspicions.”
She sighs. Says, “Me too,” and bites the inside of her cheek. “I guess this is where it starts, huh? Everyone wants to take a look at the freak show. At what we’ve done—at who I am. And we have to play along.”
But I’m only half listening.
Instead, I’m staring at the many boxes looming behind her, Castle’s words still settling in my mind. I remember I should say something, anything, to appear engaged in the conversation. So I try to smile as I say, “You didn’t tell me he’d arrived earlier. I wish I could’ve been there to assist somehow.”
Her cheeks, suddenly pink with embarrassment, tell one story; her lips tell another. “I didn’t think I needed to tell you everything, all the time. I can handle some things on my own.”
Her sharp tone is so surprising it forces my mind to focus. I meet her eyes to find she’s staring straight through me now, bright with both hurt and anger.
“That’s not at all what I meant,” I say. “You know I think you can do anything, love. But I could’ve been a help to you. I know these people.”
Her face is now pinker, somehow. She can’t meet my eyes.
“I know,” she says quietly. “I know. I’ve just been feeling a little overwhelmed lately. And I had a talk with Castle this morning that kind of messed with my head.” She sighs. “I’m in a weird place today.”
My heart starts beating too fast. “You had a talk with Castle?” She nods.
I forget to breathe.
“He said I need to talk to you about something?” She looks up at me. “Like, there’s more about The Reestablishment that you haven’t told me?”
“More about The Reestablishment?”
“Yeah, like, there’s something you need to tell me?” “Something I need to tell you.”
“Um, are you just going to keep repeating what I’m saying to you?” she says, and laughs.
I feel my chest unclench. A little.
“No, no, of course not,” I say. “I just—I’m sorry, love. I confess I’m also a bit distracted today.” I nod at the boxes laid out across the room. “It seems there’s a lot left to discover about my father.”
She shakes her head, her eyes big and sad. “I’m so sorry. It must be awful to have to go through all his stuff like this.”
I exhale, and say, mostly to myself, “You have no idea,” before looking away. I’m still staring at the floor, my head heavy with the day and its demands, when she reaches out, tentatively, with a single word.
“Aaron?”
And I can feel it then, can feel the change, the fear, the pain in her voice.
My heart still beats too hard, but now it’s for an entirely different reason. “What’s wrong?” I say, looking up at once. I take a seat next to her on the
bed, study her eyes. “What’s happened?”
She shakes her head. Stares into her open hands. Whispers the words when she says, “I think I made a mistake.”
My eyes widen as I watch her. Her face pulls together. Her feelings pinwheel out of control, assaulting me with their wildness. She’s afraid. She’s angry. She’s angry with herself for being afraid.
“You and I are so different,” she says. “Meeting Haider today, I just”—she sighs—“I remembered how different we are. How differently we grew up.”
I’m frozen. Confused. I can feel her fear and apprehension, but I don’t know where she’s going with this. What she’s trying to say.
“So you think you’ve made a mistake?” I say. “About—us?”
Panic, suddenly, as she understands. “No, oh my God, no, not about us,” she says quickly. “No, I just—”
Relief floods through me.
“—I still have so much to learn,” she says. “I don’t know anything about ruling . . . anything.” She makes an impatient, angry sound. She can hardly get the words out. “I had no idea what I was signing up for. And every day I feel so incompetent,” she says. “Sometimes I’m just not sure I can keep up with you. With any of this.” She hesitates. And then, quietly, “This job should’ve been yours, you know. Not mine.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she says, nodding. She can no longer look at me. “Everyone’s thinking it, even if they don’t say it. Castle. Kenji. I bet even the soldiers think so.”
“Everyone can go to hell.”
She smiles, only a little. “I think they might be right.” “People are idiots, love. Their opinions are worthless.”
“Aaron,” she says, frowning. “I appreciate you being angry on my behalf, I really do, but not all people are idio—”
“If they think you incapable it is because they are idiots. Idiots who’ve already forgotten that you were able to accomplish in a matter of months what they had been trying to do for decades. They are forgetting where you started, what you’ve overcome, how quickly you found the courage to fight when they could hardly stand.”
She looks up, looks defeated. “But I don’t know anything about politics.” “You are inexperienced,” I say to her, “that is true. But you can learn these
things. There’s still time. And I will help you.” I take her hand. “Sweetheart, you inspired the people of this sector to follow you into battle. They put their lives on the line—they sacrificed their loved ones—because they believed in you. In your strength. And you didn’t let them down. You can never forget the enormity of what you’ve done,” I say. “Don’t allow anyone to take that away from you.”
She stares at me, her eyes wide, shining. She blinks as she looks away, wiping quickly at a tear escaping down the side of her face.
“The world tried to crush you,” I say, gently now, “and you refused to be shattered. You’ve recovered from every setback a stronger person, rising from the ashes only to astonish everyone around you. And you will continue to surprise and confuse those who underestimate you. It is an inevitability,” I say. “A foregone conclusion.
“But you should know now that being a leader is a thankless occupation. Few will ever be grateful for what you do or for the changes you implement. Their memories will be short, convenient. Your every success will be scrutinized. Your accomplishments will be brushed aside, breeding only greater expectations from those around you. Your power will push you further away from your friends.” I look away, shake my head. “You will be made to feel lonely. Lost. You will long for validation from those you once admired, agonizing between pleasing old friends and doing what is right.” I look up. I feel my heart swell with pride as I stare at her. “But you must never, ever let the idiots into your head. They will only lead you astray.”
Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “But how?” she says, her voice breaking on the word. “How do I get them out of my head?”
“Set them on fire.” Her eyes go wide.
“In your mind,” I say, attempting a smile. “Let them fuel the fire that keeps you striving.” I reach out, touch my fingers to her cheek. “Idiots are highly flammable, love. Let them all burn in hell.”
She closes her eyes. Turns her face into my hand.
And I pull her in, press my forehead to hers. “Those who do not understand you,” I say softly, “will always doubt you.”
She leans back, just an inch. Looks up. “And I,” I say, “I have never doubted you.” “Never?”
I shake my head. “Not once.”
She looks away. Wipes her eyes. I press a kiss against her cheek, taste the salt of her tears.
She turns toward me.
I can feel it, as she looks at me; I can feel her fears disappearing, can feel her emotions becoming something else. Her cheeks flush. Her skin is suddenly hot, electric, under my hands. My heart beats faster, harder, and she doesn’t have to say a word. I can feel the temperature change between us.
“Hey,” she says. But she’s staring at my mouth. “Hi.”
She touches her nose to mine and something inside me jolts to life. I hear my breath catch. My eyes close, unbidden.
“I love you,” she says.
The words do something to me every time I hear them. They change me. Build something new inside of me. I swallow, hard. Fire consumes my mind.
“You know,” I whisper, “I never get tired of hearing you say that.”
She smiles. Her nose brushes the line of my jaw as she turns, presses her lips against my throat. I’m holding my breath, terrified to move, to leave this moment.
“I love you,” she says again.
Heat fills my veins. I can feel her in my blood, her whispers overwhelming my senses. And for a sudden, desperate second I think I might be dreaming.
“Aaron,” she says.
I’m losing a battle. We have so much to do, so much to take care of. I know I should move, should snap out of this, but I can’t. I can’t think.
And then she climbs into my lap and I take a quick, desperate breath, fighting against a sudden rush of pleasure and pain. There’s no pretending anything when she’s this close to me; I know she can feel me, can feel how badly I want her.
I can feel her, too.
Her heat. Her desire. She makes no secret of what she wants from me.
What she wants me to do to her. And knowing this makes my torment only more acute.
She kisses me once, softly, her hands slipping under my sweater, and wraps her arms around me. I pull her in and she shifts forward, adjusting herself in my lap, and I take another painful, anguished breath. My every muscle tightens. I try not to move.
“I know it’s late,” she says. “I know we have a bunch of things to do. But I miss you.” She reaches down, her fingers trailing along the zipper of my pants, and the movement sears through me. My vision goes white. For a moment I hear nothing but my heart, pounding in my head.
“You are trying to kill me,” I say.
“Aaron.” I can feel her smile as she whispers the word in my ear. She’s unbuttoning my pants. “Please.”
And I, I am gone.
My hand is suddenly behind her neck, the other wrapped around her waist, and I kiss her, melting into her, falling backward onto the bed and pulling her down with me. I used to dream about this—times like this—what it would be like to unzip her jeans, to run my fingers along her bare skin, to feel her, hot and soft against my body.
I stop, suddenly. Break away. I want to see her, to study her. To remind myself that she’s really here, really mine. That she wants me just as much I want her. And when I meet her eyes the feeling overwhelms me, threatens to drown me. And then she’s kissing me, even as I fight to catch my breath, and
every thing, every thought and worry is wicked away, replaced by the feel of her mouth against my skin. Her hands, claiming my body.
God, it’s an impossible drug.
She’s kissing me like she knew. Like she knows—knows how desperately I need this, need her, need this comfort and release.
Like she needs it, too.
I wrap my arms around her, flip her over so quickly she actually squeaks in surprise. I kiss her nose, her cheeks, her lips. The lines of our bodies are welded together. I feel myself dissolving, becoming pure emotion as she parts her lips, tastes me, moans into my mouth.
“I love you,” I say, gasping the words. “I love you.”
It’s interesting, really, how quickly I’ve become the kind of person who takes late-afternoon naps. The person I used to be would never have wasted so much time sleeping. Then again, that person never knew how to relax. Sleep was brutal, elusive. But this—
I close my eyes, press my face to the back of her neck and breathe. She stirs almost imperceptibly against me.
Her naked body is flush against the length of mine, my arms wrapped entirely around her. It’s six o’clock, I have a thousand things to do, and I never, ever want to move.
I kiss the top of her shoulder and she arches her back, exhales, and turns to face me. I pull her closer.
She smiles. Kisses me.
I shut my eyes, my skin still hot with the memory of her. My hands search the shape of her body, her warmth. I’m always stunned by how soft she is.
Her curves are gentle and smooth. I feel my muscles tighten with longing and I surprise myself with how much I want her.
Again. So soon.
“We’d better get dressed,” she says softly. “I still need to meet with Kenji to talk about tonight.”
All at once I recoil.
“Wow,” I whisper, turning away. “That was not at all what I was hoping you’d say.”
She laughs. Out loud. “Hmm. Kenji is a big turnoff for you. Got it.” I frown, feeling petty.
She kisses my nose. “I really wish you two could be friends.” “He’s a walking disaster,” I say. “Look what he did to my hair.”
“But he’s my best friend,” she says, still smiling. “And I don’t want to have to choose between the two of you all the time.”
I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s sitting up now, wearing nothing but the bedsheet. Her brown hair is long and tousled, her cheeks pinked, her eyes big and round and still a little sleepy.
I’m not sure I could ever say no to her.
“Please be nice to him,” she says, and crawls over to me, the bedsheet catching under her knee and undoing her composure. I yank the rest of the sheet away from her and she gasps, surprised by the sight of her own naked body, and I can’t help but take advantage of the moment, tucking her underneath me all over again.
“Why,” I say, kissing her neck, “are you always so attached to that bedsheet?”
She looks away and blushes, and I’m lost again, kissing her. “Aaron,” she gasps, breathless, “I really—I have to go.”
“Don’t,” I whisper, leaving light kisses along her collarbone. “Don’t go.” Her face is flushed, her lips bright red. Her eyes are closed in pleasure.
“I don’t want to,” she says, her breath hitching as I catch her bottom lip between my teeth, “I really don’t, but Kenji—”
I groan and fall backward, pulling a pillow over my head.
