Page 148 of Modern Romance September 2025 5-8
He wanted her, she knew. She could feel it. All the things she’d offered him freely, he needed. He wanted her to stay. He wanted them to be a family. But he wasn’t ready to admit it. She had to give him the time to figure that out on his own.
And so she would.
Aurora walked out on him. And only when she was out of sight did she run to her room, close the door, and throw herself on the bed.
And she wailed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
One Month Later…
SEBASTIAN’S HANDS WEREstill broken. No, it was worse. They didn’t function anymore. Didn’t bend to his will.
He held them out in front of him. His nails covered in the grey clay he’d pushed them into while trying to create something.Anything.
He noted the bulge of the veins on the hands he’d always relied on. The muscles he’d overworked and strained in his forearms. He’d pushed them too hard. And they ached. His wrists. His knuckles.
He looked at the monstrosity before him. It was still a lump of clay. Moulded into nothing recognizable with unskilled hands.
Hishands.
He pushed his hand into it, flexed his aching fingers and gripped a fistful. He yanked it free and threw it.
It smashed to the floor at the foot of the window. A stream of light from the morning sun caressed its newly flattened form. Teased it with the warmth of what it could become when softened and moulded with care.
He padded across the wooden floor to the window. He stood in the beam of light, raised his head, and begged it to infiltrate his skin. To warm him. But it only teased him, too.
He couldn’t be moulded by the heat in her eyes, her words, her fleeting touch. But the temptation of them, of what he could become if he let her in, hummed beneath his skin.
They urged him to sayyes, to all the things she wanted. All the things he’d never had, and neither had she. The warmth of a family not bound to a narrative of lies. A show performed to hide what was beneath fake smiles and pretty clothes.
He’d never worn pretty clothes for dinner. But his life had been a show for those on the outside. He’d had to lie to keep the veneer of respectability intact. Perhaps if he hadn’t lied, hadn’t tried so hard to protect himself, protect Amelia, she would still be alive. Twenty-five years later he still felt as though his heart had been cut from his chest. She’d been ripped away from him in an instant. Taken. If he hadn’t allowed himself to care, to love her so much, he’d done the unthinkable to keep her safe, maybe she’d still be alive. If he’d taken the emotion out of it. Done his duty.
He’d do his duty now. Guard Aurora, and their child, from afar.
He’d keep them safe.
He opened his eyes, scanned the treetops, the leaves browning with the death of the summer season.
A single leaf fell, and he watched it. Followed it with his eyes.
His heart thundered.
He’d avoided her for days.Weeks.
He lifted his hand to his cheek. Where it burned still. It would have been so easy to lie to her that night, to turn his head and accept her offered mouth. To kiss her as she knew he wanted to. Push his tongue between her warm, wet lips and taste her.
And he had wanted to. It was visceral. The reaction of his body.
It was more than want.
It wasneed.
And he could not let himself need her. He wouldn’t allow it. However much his body denied his command to stay still, to not react to her—he reacted.
He understood what she wanted. She had been clear, but he could not do it. And so he’d stayed away. Watched her grow from afar. And she’d grown in the weeks she’d been here. The baby inside her bigger. Almost here. Almost real.
His breath caught.
