Page 58 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
“Love?” I ask, suddenly breathless.
He bends his head until he’s a breath away. “Yes, love. What else would a king feel for his queen? What else would a man feel for the woman who made him whole?”
I need to hear the words. “Do you love me?”
“Oh, little virgin. I love you with every cold bone in my body. I love you with every dark thought, every violent impulse. I love you enough to leave the walls I’ve carefully built, the iron bars I refined, the castle I made.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” I whisper.
“This castle is for you. I’m talking about the one inside me, the one locking up everything gentle and kind I ever might have been. And now I stand in front of you, completely defenseless.”
That was one thing Jonathan Scott got right. Repression is a powerful instinct. Much like fight-or-flight. You thought you could forget me.
I can’t forget what happened to me anymore than Gabriel can forget what he’s done. We can be stronger for remembering. For surviving. For loving.
“I won’t ever hurt you.”
“Won’t you? You could crush me. With a word. A look. If you don’t let me kiss you, right this second.”
And I do him one better, rising up on my toes, pressing my lips to his. I kiss him, forcing my mouth against him, my will against him, my love imbued in every shiver and breath. The words I love you slip out, air shared between us. Then we lose ourselves in the magic of battle, of chess, the powerful exclamation that comes from one body consuming another—being consumed in return.
I’ve spent my life trying to be more than a princess in a tower. Trying to be smarter or kinder. Trying to be better in some way that will lend me power of my own. It wasn’t isolation that made me weak, though. It wasn’t a pretty pink dress. It was thinking that being saved made me weak. Accepting help, supporting friends. Finding love. All of it made me stronger.
And I could give strength in return, the one to finally make Gabriel a king.EpilogueThe Emerald is a historical hotel from the 1800s offering twenty luxury suites and a Michelin-star chef. It’s also the only place that isn’t a motel within driving distance to Smith College. Naturally that’s where most of the parents bunk when they visit their offspring. It’s also where Gabriel and I check in after arriving in Massachusetts. A porter escorts us to the separate penthouse elevator.
The glass doors open to reveal an expansive sitting area, larger than the average hotel room. It includes elegant seating arranged around a fireplace, a desk in the corner, and a built-in reading nook with walnut paneling. Through the door to one side I can see a high bed. On the other end, sunlight streams through French doors that lead to a private terrace.
When we’re alone, I turn to him. “You said we’d be circumspect.”
That was a condition of our trip. “I said we would be safe,” he amends. “This place was amenable to my security requirements. The fact that it’s also quite comfortable is just a bonus.”
I laugh softly, not wanting to know how much that cost him. A placard near the elevator reveals the history of this place. “The Emerald was a gift from a Spanish count to his betrothed, the daughter of a New York financier, banker, director of railroads, and real estate tycoon.”
“Do you think she liked it?” he asks innocently.
“An extravagant mansion and hundreds of acres? I’m sure she said thanks.”
I don’t want to give Gabriel any ideas. He already gives me gifts on a daily basis. The money bothers me, only because I used to subsist in that shallow world. I don’t want him to think that’s the only reason I stay. But I can’t deny the pleasure, the way his stoicism covers an intense desire to please me.
He smiles. “This was their country home, actually. They only stayed here a few weeks out of the year. Their primary home was in the city.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t know whether I’m more surprised that a place this huge could be a vacation home or that you actually know that fact. Do you always read up on the hotels you stay in?”
“No,” he says, drawing out the word. “Though I do for the hotels I’m buying.”
My breath hitches. “What?”
He joins me at the French doors, looking at the stunning vista of grass and lake. “Do you want to hear more? Apparently the landscaping was done by the same guy who created Central Park.”
“I’m serious,” I manage. “You’re buying this place?”
“Past tense. I bought this place.”
My lungs seem to have forgotten how to breathe. “Why?”
He pulls something from his coat pocket. An antique copper key with a green velvet ribbon tied to the end. “A gift for the woman I love.”
