What doyouwant to do?
The question is one that I haven’t asked in so long that it feels almost foreign. I don’t know the answer to it, not really. Still, I push myself to my feet anyway, walking over to the wardrobe and the walk-in closet where my clothes would go if I had any.
To my surprise, I see that the few things Liam had purchased for me in London are there, folded and hung neatly in the appropriate places. I wonder if Liam did it himself or if a maid did, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about either. Liam hanging up my clothes feels too much like something Alexandre would do, but I can’t fathom having a maid doing things for me. It’s not something I’ve ever experienced. While I know Sofia and Caterina would say it’s something you get used to, it’s hard for me to picture that.
I pull out another pair of skinny jeans and a loose silky black camisole, the material cool and rich-feeling underneath my fingertips. The jeans are a tiny bit big on me, but not too much. The top slides over my skin, hanging off of my narrow shoulders and skimming over my small breasts in a way that looks flattering rather than tent-like. I don’t recognize the names on the labels, but then again, I’ve never paid much attention to fashion designers. I couldn’t afford things like Chanel and Dior, and Sofia didn’t care, so shopping wasn’t something we really ever did. Since she’s been with Luca, she’s taken up shopping more often, and before Russia, she dragged me along with her from time to time, trying to get me out of the apartment. It didn’t work often.
These must have been expensive, though—I might not know labels, but I know the quality of fabric. I’m familiar enough with that from my time as a ballerina. I can feel it in the way it lays against my skin, see it in the way the top and jeans drape and cling, and I run my hands over my hips as I look in the mirror, wondering what possessed Liam to spend so much on me.
He could have had someone go out to the high street shops and buy me clothing, but he didn’t. It’s not so different from what Alexandre did—and yet it is, too.
Ibelongedto Alexandre. He’d bought me for exactly that purpose, to be his little doll, to dress and groom and feed and punish and spoil as he pleased. I don’t belong to Liam. I could leave this minute if I wanted to.
And yet, he’s given me a place in his home. He’s bought me expensive clothes. And he doesn’t seem to want anything in return.
Or at least, what he does want, he refuses to take—even tries to refuse it when I insist on giving it.
Since that afternoon in the hotel room, he’s barely touched me or allowed me to touch him. It’s almost as if he’s afraid that he won’t be able to control himself again, that he’ll give in, and he feels that he shouldn’t.
But why, if he’s doing all this for me? If he so clearly wants me?
It’s because of what Alexandre did.My chest aches all over again at the memory, at the broken look on Alexandre’s face when he realized what had happened, at the knowledge that he’d given me away. He hadn’t protected me. He’d lashed out, tested me in the most impossible way, used Liam to hurt me.
It should be unforgivable. Maybe it is.
And if so, what does that mean for Liam and me?
I swallow hard, stepping back from the mirror and turning towards the door. My heart is hammering in my chest at the thought of stepping out into Liam’s apartment, making my presence known. It feels like another choice, like sayingyes, I’m going to stay. I’m going to meet whoever else is out there, and I’m going to be a part of this. Your life. Your home.
Part of me wants to hide in the bedroom until Liam comes to find me and tell him that I can’t do this. That I want to go back to Manhattan, where I can hide away forever.
Instead, I step out into the hall. I take another step and then another until I’m standing in the space between the living room and the kitchen, looking at Liam and the man on the sofa across from him.
He’s not someone I’ve met before. He’s tall and muscled, with a similar build to Liam, dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt. He’s undeniably handsome, dark instead of ruddy like Liam is, with black hair brushed over and the one side of his head shaved short. His forearms are tattooed, all the way up the bulging muscles of his upper arms and climbing higher beneath the sleeves. I wonder how much else of him is tattooed—I can see a few rising above the collar, onto his neck.
“Ana.”
Liam’s voice pulls my attention back to him, back to my Irish savior. The man who swept me up and brought me here, and the feeling in my stomach when his green eyes meet mine is like adrenaline, like the feeling at the top of a roller coaster just before you fall. The man sitting opposite him is gorgeous, but objectively, like a sculpture you can’t help but admire, art that you have to admit is beautifully made.
Liam makes me feel like I’m melting every time I look at him. Like I don’t just want to admire the art, but sink into it, be a part of it, have it come to life, and wrap itself around me.
He makes my heart race every time he looks at me. Even after everything that’s happened.
He makes me want something different. Somethingmore. He makes me wish Paris had never happened, and then I feel guilty for wishing it because up until that very last day, Alexandre hadn’t hurt me. He hadn’t done anything other than try to care for me.
“This is Niall Flanagan,” Liam says, gesturing to the man across from him. “He’s my second-in-command, but in truth, we’re closer than that. He’s more like a brother to me. You’ll likely see him often, for as long as you’re here.”
Niall pushes himself to his feet, crossing the room in three quick strides and stopping in front of me, reaching for my hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, lass,” he says, lifting my hand to his lips with a quick brush against the back of it. “Liam’s told me a great deal about you. I feel almost as if we already know each other.”
It’s the same gesture Liam had made back in Viktor’s safe house when we’d first met. When Niall takes my hand, I have a moment to wonder if I’ll feel the same flush, the same tingle of excitement when his lips touch the back of my hand. After all, Niall is gorgeous, every bit as muscled and handsome as Liam, just in a slightly different way.
But when his lips brush against my hand, I don’t feel what I’d felt with Liam. The tightening in the pit of my stomach is the nervousness over meeting someone new, nothing more. When he straightens, his bright blue eyes meeting mine, I don’t feel anything other than hope that maybe this is one more person who will be kind to me here, if he’s close to Liam. Maybe even an added layer of protection against anyone else who might want to hurt me.
It tells me that what I’d felt with Liam is something else—what I’d thought it was at the beginning. A connection, a spark between us that meant something more than just the excitement of meeting a handsome man.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” I murmur, meeting Niall’s eyes nervously as he looks at me. “I think Liam mentioned you.”