Cade is the most serious and the least inviting; luckily, he’s also rarely with me. Damon’s casual outfit of a plum button-down shirt and jeans puts me at ease. As does his warmth. He’s kind, although I’m more than certain he’s capable of brutality. They all are. Yet another reason for them to wear anything but the harsh professionalism of suits.
The comfortable silence is broken with the click of the back door opening.
Zander greets us on a breeze that carries the scent of night air and crisp leaves. The amber in his hazel eyes flares low in the dim light from above the stove, deep like whiskey in a glass, and those eyes burn into mine for a beat too long. “Evening, Ella.”
“Hi, Zander.”
Damon crosses the kitchen to meet him, and the two men confer for a moment in low voices while I busy myself pretending to stir something nonexistent in my tea. I’m used to this. When they change shifts, they update each other on how the hours have gone. I imagine it’s a boring conversation. Three days of this have passed and the most I’ve done is slept long hours, sketched in a notebook and stared at the sky from the lounge chair in the back.
Even through their lowered voices, I catch glimpses of their conversation. I’m welcome to add my own notes, but I haven’t yet. My pulse races through the short update. I read in the sitting room, and I spent time in various areas of the house. Thinking and waiting. Waiting and thinking. Passing the long day. I know I’m supposed to begin therapy sessions with Damon. Or else the professionals will be called in, which I’d rather didn’t happen.
But I want to talk to Zander. I’m curious what it would be like to hear his secrets. I’ll show him mine, if he’ll show me his. The wicked thought curls up my lips and my moment of perversion is cut short by the farewells between the men.
Zander reaches out and claps Damon on the shoulder, a warm, familiar gesture, and then Damon leaves with a wave directed at me. The way he glances between the two of us when Zander isn’t looking is knowing, and it pricks my nerves. Not so much, though, as it does when Zander’s gaze reaches me.
The door closes behind him and I breathe in a new magnetism. With that boundary between Zander and me and the outside world, it feels like anything could happen. Electricity runs rampant in my veins but I don’t react to it, except to say what I’ve been waiting to tell him since I woke up this morning. “I’d like a session.”
He blinks before narrowing his gaze, hazel eyes deepening in the shadows near the door. An almost imperceptible tightening around his mouth tells me he’s surprised, but otherwise he doesn’t let on. Zander stands straight and tall in his hard body, his hands at his pockets, his posture alert but not rigid. “Where would you like to talk?”
“The sitting room.”
It’s nearly a dance. That’s what it feels like to me. A give and a take. Each judging the other with every small step. Maybe I give myself too much credit, maybe I’m carried away by it all, but it gives me a reason to want, and I’m unwilling to give that up.
Zander gestures for me to lead the way, then falls into step next to me. My heart climbs up into my throat inch by inch until it flutters there like a trapped bird. He’s the one to enter the sitting room first, flipping the switch to turn on the fireplace and then moving to a lamp in the corner. It’s not very bright. The perfect complement to the fire burning brightly in its grate. He sits in a chair facing away from it and gestures to the one across from him.
I take it.
This—this is uncomfortable. The moment I’m sitting I don’t know what to do with myself, or with my hands, but old habits kick in and I fold them neatly in my lap. Zander takes this in. His hazel eyes see everything.
“Kamden says this should be filmed,” I say, though we’ve been over this. We’ve all been over this. “This will be recorded, right?”
“Everything is being recorded.” He nods and adds, “Always.”
His confirmation sets something off in me. Something deep, and old. A desire I thought was long gone. A very specific desire, tied to a very specific memory. A warm bar. Fingertips on my jaw, on my throat, on the neckline of my dress. Heat glides up the back of my neck and wraps around to meet the warmth in my cheeks. “Not for the professionals.” I offer a huff of a laugh. “Just if I want it.”
Zander cocks his head to the side. “For you?”