In His Arms

{Vanessa’s POV}

His words had cut me, but his eyes betrayed him. Behind the fury, I saw the same Vincent I used to know— the boy who used to steal glances when he thought I wasn’t looking.

I don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was me. But suddenly, his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was rough at first, desperate, as if we were both punishing each other for the years lost. His hands gripped my arms, pulling me against him, and I felt the strength in his chest as he pressed me to the wall.

I gasped into him, and the sound broke something inside him. The kiss softened, turned tender, and then hungry again—like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to love me or destroy me.

“Vincent…” I whispered against his lips, my voice trembling.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes burned, his breath ragged.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” he said hoarsely. “How many nights I dreamed of you—only to wake up hating you?”

Tears pricked my eyes, but before I could speak, his mouth captured mine again.

Clothes became nothing between us, falling away in hurried movements, as if they were chains we needed to break. His hands traced the lines of my body with reverence and urgency, like he had been memorizing me in his head for years and was finally allowed to touch.

When he entered me, it wasn’t just passion—it was release. Years of longing, pain, anger, and love crashed together. I clung to him, nails digging into his back, whispering his name like a prayer.

He moved with a desperation that made me cry out, yet every kiss to my skin was tender, apologetic, as though he was trying to tell me I missed you, I loved you, I never stopped.

Our breaths tangled, our moans filled the silence, and the mansion that had always felt like a prison suddenly became the place where I was finally free.

When it was over, I lay trembling in his arms. His hand stroked my hair, his lips pressing into my forehead. For the first time, I felt safe in his embrace.

“Don’t leave me again,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

My tears soaked his chest. “I never wanted to, Vincent. I swear I never wanted to.”

And in that fragile moment, it felt like the years between us had vanished. We weren’t enemies. We weren’t broken. We were just Vincent and Vanessa again—two hearts that had always belonged together, finding their way back in the dark.

The days that followed were intoxicating. At night, when the mansion went quiet and the halls grew still, I found myself tiptoeing through the shadows, heart pounding, until I reached his room.

Every time I slipped inside, Vincent was waiting. Sometimes standing by the window, sometimes sprawled on his bed, but always with that same look in his eyes—the one that burned right through me.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” he teased one night, pulling me into his arms before I could answer.

“Neither could you,” I whispered, grinning against his lips.

Those nights were tender and wild in equal measure. We talked in whispers, laughed into each other’s necks, stole kisses like thieves in the dark. He told me about his dreams, his burdens, the weight of being Lady Sinclair’s son. I told him about my fears, my regrets, my guilt for breaking him once.

He began to neglect Lisa completely. She would arrive at the mansion, strutting in her gowns, demanding attention, but his eyes barely flickered toward her. He spent dinners distracted, his gaze often sliding to me when no one was watching. And when Lisa tried to touch him, he recoiled, muttering an excuse to leave.

It didn’t take long before Lady Sinclair noticed.

Her eyes followed me more sharply than before. Her lips pursed when she saw me enter or leave a room. Lisa, too, began to sense something, her questions becoming sharper, her glares more pointed.

But Vincent didn’t care. And neither did I.