MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 20 - Twenty: In Private

//CLARA//

I woke to warmth.

Not to the suffocating weight of too many blankets, but to the heavy arm wrapped around my waist possessively, and doing things to my pulse that my yoga instructor would call unhealthy attachment.

I turned my head slowly, afraid the movement would break whatever spell had kept him in my bed past dawn. He was already awake, watching me, his eyes unguarded in a way I had never seen. No mask and no calculation, just him looking at me like I was something precious.

If I had my phone right now, I would have taken a picture of him and made it my wallpaper.

God, that sounded so cringe.

"You stayed," I whispered.

"I did."

"I thought you would slip out before first light. Isn’t that the rule? Gentlemen do not get caught in ladies’ bedchambers."

One corner of his mouth tilted up. "I am not a gentleman, and you are not a lady."

"Ouch, that hurts." I retorted, though I leaned into his hand as he traced my jaw. "I’m wounded. Truly."

"You are anything but." His hand came up to trace the line of my jaw, featherlight. "I could not leave. I tried twice, but you were warm and you were here and I could not make myself move."

Something in my chest cracked open. This impossible, infuriating man had just admitted he stayed because he wanted to. No strategy and no game, just want. I had spent years building walls against men who wanted things from me. I had not prepared for one who simply wanted me.

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing lazy patterns on my hip.

"You know, the girl I knew two years ago would not have raced me through the woods. She would not have made me feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Like I am alive for the first time in years." He said it simply, without artifice. "I have not slept through a night since I took guardianship of you. The weight of your safety and your future and the responsibility sat on my chest like stones. I would lie awake and plan and worry and never find rest."

His finger traced the outline of my arm, and I felt it everywhere.

"Last night I slept. Really slept, wrapped around you like you were the only anchor I have ever had. But I know I have nearly put you in jeopardy."

"But you did not." I needed him to hear that. Needed him to understand that I was not some fragile flower he had to protect from himself.

He sighed and let his head fall back against the headboard. "Not yet. But you are making it terribly difficult to remember why I should keep my distance when all I want is to stay here forever."

I wanted to tell him that keeping distance was overrated. That if he stayed, I would not break.

But the words felt too big for my mouth, so I just kissed his shoulder and hoped he understood.

Stay, I thought. Please just stay.

"We cannot," he said, though his voice was rough with wanting. "If we continue, you will never leave this bed, and I do not trust myself to stop a second time."

"Is that a threat, Mr. Guggenheim?"

Knock. Knock.

"Miss Eleanor? It is six o’clock. Shall I bring your water?"

Hattie’s voice muffled through the door and we both froze. Casimir moved with impressive speed, out of bed and grabbing his clothes.

"The wardrobe," I hissed, pointing at the mahogany monstrosity in the corner. "Get in there. Now."

The sight was so absurd that I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. The great Casimir Guggenheim, frantically diving for his trousers was the most satisfying thing I’d seen since I arrived.

He glared at me from between the hanging dresses before pulling the door shut, but there was unmistakable amusement in his eyes despite the scowl.

I lay there with my heart pounding and the sheets pulled to my chin, trying to look like I had just woken.

Hattie bustled in, chattering about the weather and what dress I should wear. I made appropriate noises while acutely aware that the man who was currently half-dressed in my closet, probably fighting laughter behind my winter silks.

After she finally left, Casimir emerged and crossed to the bed in two strides. He hauled me up and kissed me hard, stealing my breath in one devastating motion.

"Tonight," he said against my mouth. "My study. Midnight."

Then he was gone, slipping through my door like a ghost.

I fell back against my pillows and smiled like an absolute fool.

By the time I descended to breakfast, I had my mask firmly in place.

Casimir sat at the head of the table, impeccable in charcoal gray with his cravat perfectly tied. He was back to being a block of granite. He didn’t look at me. It was the same avoidance as before, but now it felt like a personal insult.

I know what your skin feels like, you hypocrite. Look at me.

Aunt Cornelia was busy performing a forensic autopsy on last night’s ball. She catalogued who danced with whom, who wore what, and who left early and what that must mean. Her eyes lingered on me when she said that last part.

But I ignored her and sipped my tea.

Then Bartholomew appeared, oozing that I-own-the-room energy that always made me want to check my pockets for my wallet.

"Eleanor, dear. You look radiant this morning. The ball clearly agreed with you."

The maze agreed with me more, I thought, but I just offered a sugary, fake smile. "Thank you, Mr. Vanderbilt. Your standards are famously high."

"I was hoping you’d accompany me on a carriage ride this afternoon. Just the two of us."

He stepped closer and I felt Casimir go rigid at the head of the table, though his expression never changed.

I waited for his intervention. The ’No, she has a headache.’ The ’No, she has other matters to attend to.’ Anything, but—

"A fine idea, Bartholomew. The fresh air will do her good."

He didn’t even look up from his eggs. His knife moved with soul-crushing nonchalance.

Something cold and jagged settled in my chest. Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?

"I’d be delighted," I said, my voice dripping with artificial sweetener. "I could use the change of scenery."

After last night and after everything, he just sat there and let Bartholomew take me.

The carriage ride was a sensory nightmare. Bartholomew talked about breeding and legacy and his plans for my future as if I were a decorative throw pillow he was buying for his parlor. I smiled and nodded, but inside, I was drafting a 2,000-word takedown of his entire existence.

By the time we got back, I was vibrating with rage. I found Casimir in the library, staring out the window.

"The ride was lovely," I announced sharply, enough to draw blood. "Bartholomew is planning a picnic next. Very romantic. I’m thinking of accepting the rose."

He didn’t turn. "I am glad you enjoyed yourself."

"Enjoyed myself?" I crossed the room and grabbed his arm, forcing him to face me. "What the hell was that, Casimir? You just sat there and handed me to him like a leftover tray of hors d’oeuvres."

"I had no choice," he rasped, the mask finally cracking.

"You always have a choice."

"No." He caught my wrist, not hard but firm. "If I had objected, Cornelia would have smelled blood. Bartholomew would have known. They would have started asking questions we can’t answer with anything but a scandal."

"I don’t care about the scandal!"

"You should." He pulled me closer, his voice dropping. "Do you think I wanted him to take you? Do you think it cost me nothing to sit there while he led you out? I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. I wanted to rip the doors off that carriage. I wanted to tell him you’re mine and watch him choke on the realization."

"Then why did you not?"

"Because protecting you matters more than my pride." His forehead dropped to mine. "Every moment we spend together in public is danger. One wrong look or one misplaced word and everything we have could be destroyed."

I wanted to argue and wanted to tell him I did not care about danger, but I knew he was right.

"Then what do we do?" I whispered.

"We take what moments we can steal." His hand cupped my face, gentle despite everything.

"And that is it?"

"For now, my dear little bird." He kissed me, soft and tender and full of promise. "In public, you’re my ward. In private..."

"In private, you’re the man who hid in my closet," I whispered, my anger softening into something more treacherous.

"Exactly."

He kissed me hard, frustrated, and full of the possessiveness he couldn’t show at breakfast. He pressed me back against the mahogany bookshelf, and for a second, the danger of being caught felt like the only thing keeping us alive.

"Take the picnic," he whispered against my lips. "Play the part. But remember who you’re coming home to at midnight."

I pulled him down for one last, defiant kiss.

We were playing with fire in a room full of gunpowder, but God, it burned so sweet.