Page 39 of The Vines Between Us
Chapter Fourteen
ALEXANDRE
Iwoke with a start, disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings. Hugo's bedroom. The memories of the morning flooded back—our bodies entwined, the desperate whispers, the promises made in darkness. My skin still bore the marks of his passion, tender reminders of how completely I'd surrendered.
Panic clawed at my chest. What had I done?
Hugo slept peacefully beside me, one arm flung across the pillow, his auburn hair spread like a halo around his face. In sleep, he looked impossibly young—almost like the eighteen-year-old boy I'd left behind.
I slipped from beneath the covers, careful not to wake him. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I gathered my scattered clothing, pulling on my trousers with trembling hands. This had been a mistake. A beautiful, devastating mistake born of nostalgia and too much wine and the shock of discovering our grandfathers' secret.
It wasn't real. Couldn't be real. People like me didn't get second chances.
"Where are you going?"
I froze, shirt half-buttoned, caught in my shameful retreat. Hugo sat up, sheet pooling around his waist, his expression shifting from sleepy confusion to hurt understanding.
"I need to get back," I said, not meeting his eyes. "There's work to do at Domaine Moreau."
"No more than there is here," Hugo's voice was quiet, dangerous. "You were going to leave without saying goodbye. Again."
"It's not like that." The lie tasted bitter. "This morning was—"
"If you say 'a mistake,' I swear to God, Alexandre."
I finished buttoning my shirt, focusing on each movement to avoid looking at him. "We got caught up in the moment. The letters, the journals... it was emotional."
"Bullshit." Hugo threw back the covers and stood, gloriously naked and unashamed. "You don't get to do this again."
"Do what?"
"Run." He stepped closer, blocking my path to the door. "You ran fourteen years ago, and now you're trying to sneak out of my bed like some pathetic one-night stand."
"What do you want from me, Hugo?" My voice cracked.
"The truth." His eyes burned into mine. "For once in your life, be honest about what you're feeling."
"Fine. You want honesty?" Something inside me snapped. "Last night meant nothing. It was just sex. Really good sex, but nothing more. We're not teenagers anymore."
I watched his heart break in real time—the widening of his eyes, the slight parting of his lips, the way he physically recoiled as if I'd struck him. It was the cruelest thing I'd ever done in my life, and I hated myself for it even as the words left my mouth.
"Get out," he whispered.
I hesitated, some desperate part of me wanting to take it all back, to fall to my knees and beg forgiveness. But the walls were already rebuilt, the fortress secured. I stepped around him and walked out of the bedroom, down the stairs, through the front door that slammed behind me with terrible finality.
The morning air was cool against my face as Iwalked the path between our properties, each step taking me further from what might have been. By the time I reached Domaine Moreau, my cheeks were wet with tears I hadn't realized I was shedding.
Inside the domaine, I stripped and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could bear. I scrubbed at my skin, trying to erase the evidence of Hugo's touch, the scent of him that clung to me. But nothing could wash away the memory of his face when I'd told him it meant nothing.
I dressed in clean clothes and made coffee I couldn't drink, staring out the window at the vineyards stretching toward Domaine Tremblay. What was wrong with me? Why did I always destroy the things I wanted most?
The answer came unbidden, my father's voice echoing in my head: "You're not worth loving, Alexandre. Never have been, never will be."
I was fifteen the first time he caught me looking at Hugo with longing. We'd been swimming in the river that ran past the properties, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from the water droplets sliding down Hugo's bare chest. My father had been unexpectedly visiting the vineyard that weekend—one of his rare attempts at playing family man. He saw everything.
That night, he dragged me into Henri's study, reeking of whisky.
"I've seen how you look at that boy," he'd snarled, fingers digging into my arm hard enough to bruise. "It stops now. You're not a fucking fairy."
