Page 62 of Anorthic Anarchy

The flames dance across his gray eyes, making them sparkle. “Just because someone does something noble doesn’t mean they can’t do terrible things, too. People aren’t black and white. Good and evil. Villainsorheroes. You can be both all at once.”

His speech makes me pause. Could Vincente Strauss be capable of doing somethinggoodfor humanity? If so, maybe these feelings stirring within me wouldn’t be so horrible. This urge to be near him constantly. Joy that surges from my soulwhenever I see him when I wake in the morning. Warmth that spreads over me as he caresses my skin with any part of his.

“I’m choosing to think the best of my brother. I think he did what he had to because of what he was going through.”

Vincente finally gazes upon my face with some consideration. Leaning forward, he tucks a piece of my long hair behind my ear and pulls my blanket up higher on my lap before handing me a cup and saucer. He takes one for himself and sips it slowly. “I think that’s a fine way to look at things. The person to best talk to about him is Asa Donovan. Tell me what you know of the South.”

The heat from the tea seeps into my stiff hands. He stares at the side of my face even though I can’t look at him. Softly, I say, “I think that’s where Wyatt’s buried.” Imploring the consort with my begging face, I ask, “Can we meet with them? The families? If we could just tell them?—”

“You want to talk about your brother. I don’t think it will go the way you want. Besides, we’re still in danger if anyone finds out you’renotwith child yet.”

I pick up a danish and shove it in my mouth with a nod, chewing with aggravation. He’s right, but he seems to have hidden plans that he won’t tell me about. “What happens if I don’t get pregnant? What if Clavius and Herodius try to bulldoze past the barriers andtakeme? Shouldn’t we ask for help?”

His expression is sad, and his eyes strain at the corners until he blinks several times. My belly flips at how utterly striking his face is. “I think the clans want you away from me, too. I’m the monster that stole you away, remember?” Rubbing his palms off on his trousers, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I have a strategy ifanyonetries to take you from me.”

I know the answer to the question, but I ask anyway. “What is it? What’s your plan?”

With a smirk on the corner of his lips, he sits back and downs his tea. Then he grabs my leg out from under the blanket and pulls my foot into his lap. As he digs his thumbs into the sole, I groan with pleasure. “My plan now is to make you feel good so you can finish reading, then we can head to the conservatory to tend to the plants. Then I can fuck your tight little cunt again.”

His non-answer to the burning question makes me think I need a plan for myself. For life without him. But I’m coming to the point that I can’t envision what that would be like. The crushing blow to my chest when I even think of it is makes me realize that my dreams of the future revolve around this man. A life somewhere, in our own home, with our child.

When we enter the jungle of a conservatory, my hope is that we could get away and visit far-off places as a family. It seems strange, but as I watch him dallying in the dirt and carefully plucking off dead leaves from the tomato plants, I know what a gentle soul can live inside him. He wasn’t just talking about Wyatt earlier.

He was talking about himself.

We can save this city, even if it’s the two of us. Though I secretly wish to meet with the other clans and have them aid in our attempt. If I could sneak away to speak with them, perhaps without Vincente, maybe they’d listen to me. I’ll tell them he’s notbad. He wants to help.

I think…

“Nope. Put those over here.” His commanding voice snaps me out of my scheming.

Raising my eyebrows, I pause mid-air with the trowel. “What?”

“Those small leaves that fell off. Bring them to the compost bin.”

Gathering up some crunchy plant matter in my gloved hands, I wander over to the large containers lining the back wall. As Istudy the rows of raised beds under the shimmering glass roof, I picture a farm with lush greenery without the constraints of an enclosure. Fruit trees lifting their limbs to the sun in the open air. Vincente under a straw hat, working the field and telling me about each plant. His wealth of knowledge seems endless.

With a wave of my tool at the plants, I ask, “How do you know about all this?”

He holds out his hand for me, and I greedily take it. His shoulders shrug when he replies, “Just a hobby. One that was quiet, away from everyone in the house, and it had the bonus of driving my father crazy.”

Again, I see him as a young man, probably around my age, as he stuffs his unoccupied hand in his pocket and lifts to his toes while ducking his head. For someone so full of confidence, arrogance, and candor, he’s suddenly bashful. And I think I’m the only one he acts like that with. My cheeks heat with a sudden want for him, my husband.

This boy who had so much on his shoulders, he was never allowed to be that. But he can with me.

“After dinner, will you play that pretty song for me on the organ?”

His strides slow as we approach the back doors to the downstairs study. “Which one?”

“The winter one. The one that goesdo do do do…” I try to sing a little of it. Badly.

A smile crosses his lips, brightening his face with mirth. When he’s like this, I see it. His love for me. “Yes, my angel. I’ll play the winter one for you. Before or after your dinner?”

“Um, actually, how about now?” With a spin, I tug his arm and pull him into the warm house. Given the short walk, we didn’t wear coats today, but the flaming wood lighting up the living room’s oversized fireplace more than makes up for the chill in the air outside. It’s also been nice to wear thick pantsand sweaters that Sev brought me from somewhere beyond our fences. Vincente grumbles whenever he has to undo the buttons, but I like making him work for it.

Once he settles on the bench, his strong arms wrap around me, pulling me onto the seat next to him. Sliding against the wood, I settle in and watch his long fingers caress the keys. At first strike, the sound vibrates my blood. The flex of his muscles working the machine fascinates me until I’m entranced, watching him like the master of music he is. His elbow bumps into my side occasionally, but not in a way to make me move over. It’s more like a touch of endearment or making sure I’m still with him.

All three stories of the room fill with deep, wiry sounds his fingers produce as he becomes engrossed in the sheets of notes in front of him. Just as he gets to the loud crescendo of the song, my pussy tingles with every strike of his harmonious chords, which is only heightened by the long note he holds at the end of the movement.

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