CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sleep wouldn’t come.
Despite the comfortable weight of Wisp in my arms and the reassuring lub dub of her heart in my ears, restlessness rolled under my skin and my limbs buzzed with agitation.
I couldn’t even blame it on him. He – the bear – was silent for once, practically purring with satisfaction. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so calm.
I’d never felt this way before, either: the urge to hold someone – to cuddle – after sex. But the thought of prying myself away from Wisp, of not having some part of myself touching her, caused a surge of displeasure so strong to rush through me that my arms would tighten around her almost unconsciously.
Who could blame me?
Wisp was perfection, a heady mix of innocent curiosity and reckless tenacity that had me simultaneously itching to hide her away – protect her – from the world and fuck her into the wall.
Arousal stirred as I remembered the sounds she’d made when I’d lavished attention on her sweet little breasts, the pink flush spreading over her cheeks and the tiny “o” her mouth had formed when I’d sucked her clit into my mouth.
Fuck.
The way she had felt around me. Nothing could have prepared me for the sensation of being incased in the heat of her body. Even if there was a God and He’d created a heaven, I knew that not even that could compare to it – to her.
But that was just it.
It wasn’t the sex, it was Wisp.
Being with her was something else, something more. Not just sex, but a declaration of intent. A claiming.
(Mine, the beast rumbled.)
Wisp was mine. She was mine to hold, and fuck, and care for.
That news article with its damn headline flashed through my mind, and my jaw clenched.
He couldn’t have her. I knew even before I’d seen his picture that he would never be able to take care of Wisp the way that I could. He probably didn’t even know how Wisp preferred her eggs (scrambled), or that she liked animals as much as people. I knew damn well that he didn't know how to make her fucking keen with his mouth alone like I could, like I did.
He was nothing.
Thinking of him caused another wave of irritation to roll through me, and I stretched my neck, trying to keep the looming tension at bay. But it was an impossible task. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw it again.
That news article and its bold, black headline.
REAL LIFE RUNAWAY BRIDE
The daughter of a Washington senator was reported missing earlier this week, just days shy of her upcoming wedding.
Sloane Radcliff, only child of Cornelius Radcliff, was slotted to marry Graham Vanderbilt, son of business mogul Henry Vanderbilt and heir to the Vanderbilt estate.
While some speculate that Radcliff is suffering from a case of cold feet and is missing of her own free will, Radcliff’s father insists that is not the case, claiming his daughter was looking forward to her union with G. Vanderbilt and that nothing short of “a catastrophic event” would keep her away.
Frustrated with police efforts, he has claimed they have dismissed his daughter’s disappearance as a case of a runaway bride, and has sought the public’s assistance in finding her. (see pg. B4)
Meanwhile, Radcliff’s fiancé, G. Vanderbilt, remains tight-lipped about her disappearance, though reports from friends and family indicate he is devastated.
Devastated.
It was a piss poor way to describe how I would feel if I ever had someone like Wisp and I lost her. I would steal, rampage, kill to get her back.
But Wisp wasn’t lost. She was sleeping on my chest, her wild hair tickling my chin – right where she belonged.
My arms tightened infinitely around her.
There hadn’t been any pictures accompanying the article, and my first thought after reading it was that Graham Vanderbilt was the same man who’d been starring in Wisp’s nightmares the past three weeks. The ring I’d found near the cliff certainly leant credibility to the theory, but when I’d used Liam’s phone to research him, I quickly discovered that wasn’t the case.
There were photos of him speckled throughout the Internet, and he looked nothing like the man Wisp had described. He was tall, but instead of yellow hair and gray eyes, his hair was black, and his eyes were so dark they were nearly the same color. He was also young – twenty-five – and clean cut. (Don’t forget handsome, a snide voice in my head reminded me.)
In most of the pictures, he was wearing a smarmy smile and had his arm wrapped around some fawning female. A sanctimonious prick, basically – no one that Wisp would ever be interested in.
Yet, that hadn’t stopped me from wanting to reach through the screen and strangle him with his own fucking tie.
I hadn’t only investigated Graham Vanderbilt, I researched all of them: Henry Vanderbilt, Cornelius Radcliff, and her… Sloane. (Wisp, my subconscious screamed.)
There were hundreds of articles on Vanderbilt Senior, a billionaire who’d made his fortune in real estate by buying and renovating warehouse districts on the east side of Seattle.
There was a lot on Cornelius, too, who was apparently running for reelection in November. Despite being a four-time incumbent, poll numbers didn’t look promising. (Although they’d been on the rise since the missing status of his daughter had come to light – public sympathy at its finest.)
About Wisp, however, there was nothing: no hint of her existence outside of the news articles on her disappearance. No Facebook, social media, or anything.
It was galling.
While I searched, I had knocked back beers, moving to hard liquor shortly after in an attempt to drink myself into a stupor. It had proven a useless endeavor, just as I knew it would, but I’d felt drunk, anyway – with impotence and rage at the fucking unfairness of it all.
Because Wisp was mine.
Except, she wasn’t. There were people out there looking for her, missing her: a concerned father and a “devastated” fiancé.
But I couldn’t give her up.
I’d made the decision and forced Gemma and Liam to swear to secrecy before I even left the bar. I could tell they thought I was a fool, but I didn’t care as long as they kept their mouths shut.
When I saw Wisp at the cabin, my decision had only solidified. It’s why I’d apologized. That, and I’d felt like an asshole for worrying her, but I couldn’t tell her why I was so late. Not yet. (Not ever.)
Instead of even attempting to explain myself, I’d fucking taken her. I’d made Wisp mine in a way I’d been longing to do since I first saw her.
So why did I still feel so unsettled?
Because no amount of screwing will make her yours, a voice taunted. She has a fiancé. What do you think she’s going to think when she finds out you knew that and fucked her anyway, huh? You think she’ll still want to be with you then?
Tension gathered in my shoulders, and I could feel my agitation growing. Waking Wisp was the last thing I wanted to do, so carefully prying her off me, I made sure she was resting comfortably before I rolled out of bed.
I went to the bathroom, mindlessly taking a piss before washing my hands in the sink. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and stared. “I’m doing the right thing,” I muttered.
For who? a voice whispered.
I clutched the edge of the vanity. For both of us. She said I made her happy – the happiest she’s ever been.
And how exactly would she know that? She has no memory beyond the past three weeks – no memory of her life before you.
I could feel a low growl slowly making its way up my chest, and I didn’t realize just how tightly I was gripping the vanity until I felt the porcelain snap in my hands.
Damn it.
I dragged a hand roughly down my face, forcing back the turbulent emotions I could feel threatening to stir before eyeing the crack.
It wasn’t awful. I could fix it with some plaster in the morning.
For now, though, I needed to clean myself up and get back to Wisp. I’d only been away from her for two minutes, and already I was anxious to have her back in my arms.
I grabbed a hand towel and wet it in the sink, running it over the tacky semen sticking to my stomach. I stretched the towel lower a few seconds later… and froze.
Was that…?
No.
There were tiny flecks of what looked like dried blood near the base of my dick.
My mind didn’t want to compute what that meant.
I could feel my stomach filling with bile, and dropping the towel to the floor like it fucking burned, I stormed back into the bedroom. Barely having the presence of mind not to rip the blanket off Wisp, I carefully pulled it away from her body.
Between her legs, on the inside of her thighs, there were little smears of red.
Wisp had been a virgin.
Clenching my hands into fists until the blunt end of my nails bit into my palms, I ran my eyes over the rest of her body. I took in the purpling marks on her hips from where my fingers had been grasping at her skin, the array of darkening hickeys on her neck, and my stomach fucking sunk.
I had hurt her.
My chest tightened as I suddenly saw my behavior the past few hours in an entirely new light.
As a way to justify my actions, I had already decided in my mind that Wisp was a runaway, just like the article had hinted at. She wanted to get away from her fiancé and everyone else in her life, and I was helping her – protecting her – by keeping her hidden, keeping her in the dark.
(It’s what I wanted to believe.)
But I wasn’t fucking protecting her.
She was in danger just by being around me, and the proof was right before my eyes. In a matter of hours, I’d lied to Wisp, manipulated her, left bruises on her skin.
I’d practically raped an eighteen-year-old girl.
Almost worse, I’d made the decision to purposely keep her away from the people who were actively searching for her, people who cared about her and were probably worried sick. Her own father, even – her family.
I knew what it was like to not have a family – the loneliness it entailed, the emptiness. And I was willing to put Wisp through it, anyway. I wanted her so badly for myself that I had selfishly put my own needs above hers.
In that instant, standing over the bed and staring at the marks I had thoughtlessly inflicted on her skin, the blood between her legs, I knew. The only one that Wisp needed protecting from… was me.
Even after the fire, I hadn’t felt like this, like the monster I knew deep down that I was.
I didn’t deserve Wisp. I never had.
I’d just been fucking kidding myself.
Somehow over the roaring in my ears – he had awoken and was growling, a deep, throaty noise, as he realized my intentions – I managed to walk stiffly to the kitchen and pick up the phone.
NostopMINE.
Shutting him down, shutting myself down, I dialed the number to the Sheriff’s office.