Page 91 of His To Unravel
Olivia steps inside slowly, her eyes drifting over the sleek design—until she sees the other side. She freezes.
Dresses, skirts, and blouses line the wall. Her lips part slightly.
She turns slowly toward me. “Whose are these?”
For a second, something cold grips my chest. Her eyes narrow, and the open curiosity that once filled them shifts, hardening into something distant. Suspicion. Discomfort. It coils between us, thin and sharp, threatening to unspool everything I have carefully built.
I step forward, careful to keep my tone light, though panic stirs just beneath my calm exterior. “They’re yours. From Bergdorf. I had them delivered this morning.”
Her fingers graze one of the dresses, but she doesn’t speak right away. The silence stretches, her hesitation pressing against me like a weight. I watch the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand pauses at the silk, questioning the truth behind my words.
“All of them?” Her voice is low, uncertain.
I rest a hand lightly on her hip, closing the space between us, my chest brushing against her back. “I wanted you to have options to choose from,” I murmur, my mouth near her ear. “To feel at home here.”
She finally glances at me, her eyes searching mine. I hold her gaze, steady, but beneath the surface, every nerve in my body braces for rejection. The thought that she could pull away—could misinterpret this as something else—tightens like a vise around my ribs.
Olivia steps out of the closet, crossing the bedroom with slow, deliberate steps. Each one feels heavier than the last, and by the time she lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, I can see it—doubt. Her hands rest lightly in her lap, but she won’t look at me.
I follow, the grip of unease spreading through my chest. She is retreating, withdrawing into some part of her mind I’m not sure I can reach.
I sit beside her, close but cautious. My gaze fixes on her,tracing the delicate line of her profile. The need to bind her to me feels all-consuming.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, my voice straining to sound composed, but the edges fray with the weight of unspoken need. It isn’t just a question, it’s a plea for reassurance.
She hesitates, and the silence feels damning. I can already see the narrative forming in my head—the regret flickering behind her eyes, the second thoughts she won’t voice aloud.
She finally shakes her head, but it isn’t enough to quell the storm building inside me. Her acquiesce feels too fragile, like a thread stretched to its breaking point. One careless tug and it will snap entirely.
My grip tightens around the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening as if sheer force could tether her to this place, tome.
Every aspect of her life now passes beneath my gaze—her location, her conversations, even the fleeting moments she thinks are hers alone. None of it escapes me. And yet, it isn’t enough. Not when she can still sit here, within reach yet somehow miles away.
The thought twists something inside me, dark and seething. I have already crossed lines I never imagined I could. What’s one more? A part of me welcomes the descent—the steady unraveling of restraint that whispers promises of more absolute measures, all to erase the possibility of an existence without me.
If she won’t stay willingly, I will make certain she has no other choice.
TWENTY-SIX
olivia
The bedroom is steepedin stillness, the kind that stretches and frays at the edges until it feels too thin to hold. I remain seated next to Nathaniel on the bed, but my focus drifts, caught between the heavy silence and the questions I’m not ready to voice.
My gaze keeps returning to the dresser, where more framed photos of me rest, their presence unexpected and jarring. The sight of them stirs a sense of unease, curling low in my stomach. They echo the ones I saw in the living room—only now, I can’t pretend I’m imagining it.
I know those photos aren’t recent.
The sunlight filtering across my face, the soft curl of my hair as I laugh at something I can’t remember—they are moments captured long before Nathaniel and I had officially met. I don’t know how to process that.
I feel his fingertips brush against my palm in a wordless bid for my attention.
“You’re upset,” he murmurs, and it feels like a question, though it isn’t.
I glance sideways, meeting his eyes for only a breath before dropping my gaze to where our hands touch.
“No… Not at all. I’m just…surprised,” I offer. “It’s a lot to take in.”
It isn’t a lie, but it isn’t the whole truth either.
