Page 22 of Capricorn

Liam stiffens. “Oliver?”

“Who else?”

“Well, he’s not cruel.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Mr. Whitney is…” Liam exhales, dragging a hand across his jaw, as if choosing his words with careful consideration. “He’s very controlled.”

“Like Mr. Bordeaux?”

“In a way, yes, but not as harsh.”

“Will he…?” I swallow hard, forcing myself not to squirm. “Is he expecting to touch me?”

Liam taps his fingers against the table, gaze fixed on the window, his profile concealing whatever he’s thinking.

What doesn’t he want me to see?

“Liam,” I press, my tone insistent, “what does Oliver want from me?”

“I don’t know.”

Unease curls in my gut. “You don’t know?”

“Oliver has…specific tastes. Needs he takes care of elsewhere.” A beat passes. “But that doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

The tea turns bitter on my tongue. I should be used to this by now.

Walking blind into the hands of another man.

Adapting to whatever waits for me in his domain.

But I’m not, and I don’t think I ever will be.

8

Liam’s been in the library for what feels like forever. I pace the corridor, the soles of my flats scuffing the polished marble.

Forward. Pivot. Back again.

That closed door taunts me. I don’t know how much time has passed. Ten minutes? Twenty? Regardless, every second drags, stretching my nerves to the breaking point. My thoughts spiral through the worst possibilities…

Oliver Whitney’s expectations.

The details Liam might be sharing.

And the looming threat of the dungeon.

The toast and eggs I forced down this morning want to make a reappearance. I hug my rebellious stomach and turn on my heel once more, and that’s when the door creaks open.

Liam steps out, followed by Oliver, who’s even taller than I remember, easily clearing six feet. The precision of his tailored suit clashes with the unruly fall of midnight hair grazing his ears. His brown eyes, lighter than Liam’s by several shades, sweep over me.

“I’ll give you a minute to say your goodbyes.” Oliver strides toward the elevator and stops a few feet away, allowing us space to breathe.

As Liam closes the distance between us, a strained silence lingers. He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to dislodge something heavier than words. “I don’t know what to say.” His hands slide into the pockets of his light grey trousers, shoulders stiff. “I’m not ready for this.”

My gaze lowers to his rustic brown shoes. “Did you tell him about last night? I mean the cliff.”

---