บททั้งหมดของ Sold to the coldhearted beast: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

*Tristan* I am mucking things up. Royally. I can’t remember the last time that I had handled a situation so poorly. Perhaps when my brothers first returned. I remember the hearty hug that Raphael had given Stephan, and how I had ached because the thought of being wrapped that tightly by such strong arms had forced me to distance myself, to shove whiskey into their hands, to give no indication that I desperately wanted to share in such a joyous reunion. I had been angry with them then. I still am, but it was the fear of what they might realize, what they might understand of my past that held me back. I am having a difficult enough time as it is allowing Eve to cling to my arm as we stroll through the rookeries. But I can’t risk anyone thinking that she isn’t with me. I have a reputation down here. I do not come often anymore, but legends grow with absence, and enough people would remember me that I know we won't be accosted. I had come to understand at breakfast that she isn’t f

*Tristan* I had wanted to dine on the terrace with candles flickering because it provides more shadows than light, and I have already given away far too much. I do not want her studying me, trying to decipher me. I also do not want the formal attire that is required in the dining room … although it being my home I can wear, or not wear, whatever I want. I am in a loose white linen shirt. My frock coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth is on the floor of my bedchamber. She is still in the hideous black, but she has removed all the pins from her hair and secured it with a black ribbon. The golden tresses reach the small of her back. It is a vision that will haunt me tonight when I return to the club. I can’t remember the last time I have spent so few hours in a day at my establishment. Odd that I have not given it any thought until this moment. She has been my focus for much of the day. I study her over the rim of my wine glass, imagining her in the clothing that the dressmaker is no doubt

*Tristan* She has left a lamp burning by the bed. And now I am wondering if she suffers from nightmares, if monsters visit her in sleep as they do me. But then I suspect the existence of monsters is a recent discovery for her. Soon she will add me to the list, if she hasn't already. She appears so innocent in sleep. On her back, but not completely, twisted a little to the side, her hip raised slightly, one bent leg resting over the other. One of her hands lays near her head on the pillow, fingers curled. So trusting, certain I won’t come to her tonight, that I won’t claim what I am owed. I do not know why I am here and not at my club. I had planned to work until dawn, until I was too exhausted to think of her, to want her. Instead the clock had barely struck midnight when I left. Like some misguided fool, I had hoped to find her sitting in the morning room, staring at her father’s portrait, sipping wine or rum or Scotch. I had hoped she had not yet retired, but then she is still n

*Tristan* I want her flat on her back, with her legs spread. I want to be buried deeply inside her, thrusting, thrusting, until the pleasure carries away the pain of memory. I had told her almost everything, the dark secrets that I have never shared with anyone, that I have been carrying with me since I was ten. I have accumulated more over the years, each one weightier than the one that came before. But if I told her, she would choose the rookeries over me. She would know the blackness that is my soul, the horrors that haunts me, the desperation that had once filled me with dread. Now that desperation is turned toward her. I have never wanted a woman as I want her. If only some of her innocence could wash over me, but it is more likely that my darkness will rub off on her. I hate the thought of touching her, of destroying the light in her eyes, but I hate more the thought of never possessing her. I wait, my patience barely tethered until her fingers are no longer clutching the bl

*Everly* The following morning I enjoyed a solitary breakfast. It seemed that Tristan had left early for his club. He doesn’t return that evening or the next. Or the one that follows. No word from him. Is this the uncertainty that will be my life? Curiosity had gotten the better of me one night and I attempted to open the door to his bedchamber, only to find it locked. I had tried both doors, the one that leads into my room and the one in the hallway. I wonder what secrets he harbors in there, what I might learn about him. He is so mysterious, and if he isn’t returning to the residence, how am I to come to know him better? I know all he desires is the bedding. Unfortunately I dream of more. On the fourth afternoon, following a midday meal, I sit in a chair beneath the shade of a towering elm, near the brick wall that borders the massive garden of the property beside this one. From a window at the end of the hallway in the wing where my bedchamber is located, I had been able to g