No Divorce, Only Widowhood: His Possession

The master bedroom was dark, lit only by the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. Serena stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, wrapped tightly in her silk robe. Outside, the city lights of Los Angeles sprawled like a glittery, indifferent ocean.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of sandalwood and expensive soap.

Julian walked out. He wore only a towel low on his hips. His torso was a landscape of lean muscle and scars-faint white lines across his ribs, a jagged mark on his shoulder from a polo accident years ago, a testament to a sport as brutal as it was refined.

He didn't look at her immediately. He walked to the crystal decanter on the dresser and poured two fingers of amber liquid. He drank it in one swallow, the muscles in his throat working.

Then he turned.

He didn't speak. He just crooked a finger.

Serena's breath hitched. She turned away from the window and walked toward the bed. Her legs felt heavy, like she was wading through water. Every step was a battle between her pride and her necessity.

When she reached him, Julian set the glass down. He reached out and untied the sash of her robe. He didn't rush. His movements were methodical, efficient.

The silk pooled at her feet. Serena crossed her arms over her chest, a reflex of shame. She felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally flayed.

Julian took her wrists and pulled her arms down to her sides. His grip was firm, bordering on painful.

"Don't hide," he commanded.

He guided her onto the bed. There was no romance in it. No soft words. No gentle caresses to warm her up. He moved over her with a weight that was suffocating and grounding all at once.

Serena kept her left arm pressed firmly against the mattress, burying her wrist into the soft Egyptian cotton sheets. Even in the dim light, she wouldn't risk him seeing the ink. It felt like a brand, a mark of ownership from a past life she was desperate to erase.

He kissed her, but it wasn't a kiss of affection. It was a claiming. His lips were hard, his tongue demanding. He tasted of whiskey and mint.

Serena lay passive, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the restaurant. To Harrison's hand on her arm. To the lie that she still loved him.

Julian stopped.

He pulled back, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes were black holes in the dim light, searching her face. He looked angry.

"Look at me," he growled.

Serena focused her eyes on him.

"Who are you thinking about?" he demanded. He shifted, his hips pressing harder against hers, a sharp reminder of his presence.

"No one," she gasped.

"Liar." He moved again, a friction that dragged a gasp from her throat. "Say my name."

Serena bit her lip. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Not when this was just a transaction for him.

Julian stopped moving completely. The stillness was worse. He waited. He had all the patience in the world, and he held all the cards.

"Serena," he warned. Low. Dangerous.

"Julian," she cried out, her voice cracking. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and tracked hot into her hairline. "It's you. It's only you."

Something in his face fractured. The hardness around his mouth softened for a fraction of a second. He lowered his head and kissed the tear away. His lips lingered on her wet skin, surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to the roughness of his body.

When it was over, Julian rolled away immediately. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, broad and impenetrable. He reached for his robe and put it on, tying it tightly.

Serena pulled the duvet up to her chin, curling into a ball on the far side of the massive mattress. She felt used. She felt hollow.

Julian walked to the balcony door. He slid it open and stepped out into the night air. She watched the silhouette of him lighting a cigarette. The tiny cherry of the burning tobacco glowed in the darkness.

Exhaustion pulled at her. Her eyelids felt heavy as lead. Within minutes, the emotional toll of the day dragged her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

...

Julian waited until her breathing evened out into the slow rhythm of deep sleep. He stubbed out the cigarette, half-smoked, and stepped back into the room.

He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at her. In sleep, the tension had left her face. She looked younger. Softer.

His eyes caught a purple bruise blooming on her upper arm-where she had slammed into the doorframe earlier.

He frowned, his jaw clenching.

He went into the bathroom and returned with a small jar of arnica salve. He sat on the edge of the bed, moving with a ghost-like silence. He gently pulled the duvet down to expose her arm.

Serena murmured something in her sleep and shifted.

Julian froze, his hand hovering in mid-air. He waited until she settled again.

Then, with agonizing slowness, he began to rub the salve into the bruise. His thumb circled the dark mark, his touch infinitely lighter than it had been an hour ago. He did it for five minutes, until the salve was fully absorbed.

He pulled the duvet back up, tucking it around her shoulders.

He walked to the nightstand and picked up his phone. A message from Gavin, his head of security, was waiting.

Gavin: The agency has agreed. All photos from The Ivy have been purchased. Exclusive rights transferred to Sterling Corp. The servers have been scrubbed.

Julian typed a single word reply: Done.

He set the phone down, turned off the lamp, and lay down in the darkness. He didn't touch her. He just lay there, listening to her breathe, guarding the space between them.