As the Southern Wind Moves On

Chapter 2---Can I Stay?

I hadn't had time to think when the bedroom door swung open. He entered, soaked through, not even glancing at me before disappearing into the bathroom. The rush of water followed shortly after.

With his arrival, sleep was no longer an option. I rose, dressed quietly, pulled his nightwear from the closet, and laid it by the bathroom door before stepping out onto the balcony.

The plum rains had arrived. Outside, a fine drizzle fell without pause. Darkness had settled, and the soft tapping of rain against the tiles echoed faintly in the air.

At the sound behind me, I turned. Maxwell Harrington had emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his hips, his hair dripping, water tracing down the contours of his strong, sculpted body. There was no greater temptation than a man like this.

Perhaps sensing my gaze, he looked at me, his sharp brows slightly furrowed. "Come here." His voice held no warmth.

I obeyed. As I approached, he tossed a towel into my hands, his tone low. "Dry my hair."

He had always been this way. I was accustomed to it. He sat on the edge of the bed; I climbed up and knelt behind him, gently rubbing the fabric through his damp strands.

"Tomorrow is grandfather's funeral. We should head to the Harrington Manor early," I said—not to make conversation, but because he was so consumed by Ariana Whitmore that without a reminder, he might have already forgotten.

"Mm." He grunted, then fell silent.

Knowing he wanted no further exchange, I said nothing more. Once his hair was dry, I returned to bed, preparing to sleep.

Pregnancy made me constantly drowsy. Usually, after showering, Maxwell would retreat to his study until well past midnight. But tonight, inexplicably, after changing into his pajamas, he simply lay down beside me.

Strange, but I didn't question it. Then, suddenly, he pulled me into his arms, drew me close, and pressed a trail of soft, scattered kisses upon my skin.

I looked up at him, bewildered. "Maxwell… I—"

"Not willing?" His voice cut in, his dark eyes black as night, fierce and untamed.

I lowered my gaze. I wasn't willing—but I had no say.

"Could you… go easier?" The baby was only six weeks along. Any misstep could be dangerous.

He narrowed his eyes, said nothing, then rolled me beneath him and began—anything but gentle. I curled into myself, bracing against the pain, doing all I could to shield the child.

As he drove into me with relentless force, the rain outside turned violent. Thunder cracked, lightning split the sky, and the lights flickered wildly. Only much later did he rise and return to the bathroom.

Pain left me drenched in cold sweat. I thought of getting up for painkillers, but fearing for the baby, I gave up.

Vrrr— The phone on the nightstand vibrated—Maxwell's. I glanced at the clock. It was already 11 p.m.

Only Ariana Whitmore would call at this hour.

The water in the bathroom stopped. Maxwell stepped out, wrapped in a towel, dried his hands, and answered. I couldn't hear the other end.

I saw him frown slightly. "Ariana, don't be ridiculous."

He hung up, then began changing—clearly preparing to leave. Normally, I might have looked away. But now, I seized his arm, my voice soft with pleading. "Can you stay tonight?"

Maxwell frowned, his handsome face hardening with cold disdain. "Now that you've tasted a little sweetness, you dare get bold?"

The words were icy, laced with mockery.

I froze, then let out a hollow laugh. I lifted my eyes to him. "Tomorrow is grandfather's funeral. Even if you can't let her go, shouldn't you have some decency?"

"Threatening me?" His eyes narrowed. He gripped my jaw, his voice low and sharp. "Elara Marston, you've grown daring."