Page 8 of Hawthorne

Low and husky, his voice penetrates every pore in my skin, finding a home under it. Vincent Hawthorne.

Though the suspicion in his voice is clear, his tone is not accusatory. At all.

My body refuses to move, and so does his, burning one side of my back with his body heat. He’s not touching me, but it sure does feel like it.

“I- I-”

My eyes slide to the corner in a stupid attempt to see him when my body fails to cooperate.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

The way each word comes out slowly and self-assured unnerves me even further. Long gone is the teenager with kind eyes and unlimited patience; behind me stands an imposing and intimidating man.

When the short-circuit finally ends a million years later, and my brain finally regains its full cognitive cells, I start bowing, “Your Gra-”

“Don’t,” Vincent hisses, quickly pulling me up by the arm.

Then he quickly looks around to see if someone noticed. I mimic him, only to find the receptionist’s hair behind the counter and the doorman at the entrance with his back towards us.

Knowing no one is paying attention, I take advantage of the fact he’s still inspecting his surroundings to look at him.

Just like at the memorial, he looks pristine. Hair pulled back in a classic gentlemanly style and an ironed-to-perfection suit. The only difference is the absence of the short stubble he had then. Still, he’s breathtaking.

I hear a loud exhale, and from the hold his hand has on my elbow, I feel him slightly relax.

But then his eyes lock on mine, and this time around, the one tensing is me. In fact, even my breath hitches as the hazel irises shine under the bright sunlight coming in from the glass walls.

“Not many people know I am here, so please,” he comments lowly. “Don’t do that. I hate it,” he confesses. “It will only bring unwanted attention.”

“O-of course,” I stammer.

His hold on my elbow isn’t loosening, burning through it and affecting my ability to talk properly.

Rachel, my college mate and best friend, would never let me live this down, that’s for sure. That leaves me a mental note to video call her as soon as possible.I miss her.

The silence stretches, and I wonder where the hell is that damned lift. When my eyes lower back to my elbow one more time, the duke seems to realise he’s still holding me and lets go.

“Sorry,” he mumbles at the same time the lift pings, warning us of its arrival.

A large group of people comes into view, preparing to leave the metal box, and we both step aside to let them exit.

I don’t step away enough because one of the bulkiest guys coming out in a clad suit bumps his muscly arm into my skinny shoulder, knocking me off. I lose my balance and almost fall on my side until a solid pair of arms catches me just in time.

Strong but tender hands splay around my waist, and the pad of a finger brushes a small part of my exposed skin, sending electricity through me and heating my body from there.

Vincent’s breath hitches the moment my back hits his chest, and his scent fills my nostrils. It’s a leathery and wood combination with a slight hint of benzoin, an extract from a plant found in many eastern countries. It’s very similar to vanilla.

My mother was half-Indonesian. So, this is an aroma I am quite acquainted with because she used it as a fragrance at the manor. The duchess loved it, and so did I. It reminds me of family. Home.

The familiarity of his perfume makes me close my eyes and sink into him slightly. But then his hold tightens on me for a second while his ragged breath hits the spot just below my ear, and a shiver wakes me up from my reverie.

I gasp, flying out of his touch as if I have just been burnt. “Your Grace, oh my god. I am so sorry!”

He clears his throat and straightens his back before saying, “It’s alright.” He displays a tight-lipped smile while slightly dusting his suit.

Is it because he touched me?

I hang my head in shame. Aunt Lizzie taught me better, and this is not the way to act around someone of his standard.

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