#16.
1004 Words
Grace’s eyes widened, she rose to her feet with a sudden urgency. The floorboards creaked under her weight, a sound that felt entirely too loud.
"I’m tired," she murmured, clutching at the hem of her sleeve as if it were a shield. "I really should get going."
Tate did not move. He remained seated, a picture of languid composure that only deepened her irritation. His lips curled into a smirk, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Avoiding questions, are we, Grace?"
His voice dropped low, resonating with a huskiness that scraped against her nerves. She halted near the threshold, turning to look back at him. Her spine was straight, rigid with the effort of maintaining a semblance of composure.
"I think that is a deeply personal inquiry," she replied, her voice firm despite the tremor in her heart. "And entirely inappropriate, given our circumstances."
Tate tipped his head, his gaze drinking in her defiance with open amusement. He seemed to relish her discomfort, finding it a form of entertainment. "I am only attempting to know the woman I have married. Is that not the prerogative of a husband?"
"There is nothing to know," Grace retorted, her tone sharp. "Besides, if I recall your earlier sentiments correctly, you were quite clear about the fact that I am not your type."
Tate paused, his smirk softening into a knowing nod. He rose as well, his movements possessing a fluid grace that made the room feel suddenly smaller. He did not pursue her, not yet, but he stood with a confident presence.
"Very well," he said, his voice smooth as polished stone. "If you are exhausted, then by all means, retire for the evening."
He followed her, though not with rush. He trailed her progress through the room, his stride long and unhurried. Grace could feel his attention pressing against her back. She walked with her head held high, Every instinct screamed at her to break into a run, but she refused to give him that satisfaction.
She reached the safety of her room, stepping inside. She shut the door.
Tate remained in the hallway, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. He stood like a statue, watching the closed door, his gaze unmoving. He waited there, a man in the grip of a strange, restless energy, until the silence on the other side of the door confirmed she had retreated.
He moved to turn back toward his own room, but a prickle at the back of his neck made him pause. He turned, his eyes narrowing, and locked gazes with Jacob, who stood a few paces away. Jacob’s expression was unreadable, save for the smirk on his lips. Tate met that gaze with cold silence. He turn on his heel and walk back into his room, leaving the door ajar.
Jacob stepped inside, his footsteps silent on the rug. "I do not believe," he began, his voice laced with an infuriating touch of wonder, "that I have ever seen that look in your eyes before. A softness, if I am not mistaken."
Tate went to his bedside table, his back to Jacob. "Do not confuse your perceptions with reality. You are overthinking. I am ensuring my wife remains satisfied."
Jacob leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Yes, we shall see how that unfolds. Especially when she begins to wind you around those fingers of hers."
Tate spun around, his expression hardening coldly. "Shut that nonsense away. And tell me—why were you lurking there, watching me? Spy work, now?"
Jacob raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, his smirk deepening. "I had news to deliver, Tate. I didn't realize you were so preoccupied."
Tate sat on the edge of the bed, the exhaustion of the evening finally seeping into his posture. "Go on, then."
"Jace has backed down," Jacob reported, the humor leaving his voice as he spoke of business. "He has abandoned whatever chaos he was planning."
A smirk played on Tate’s lips, a reaction that told the whole story without a single word. Jacob watched him, his eyes knowing.
"Did you do something?" Jacob asked, his tone quiet.
Tate locked eyes with him, the intensity of his gaze enough to make the air in the room feel tight. "Have you ever seen anyone cross me and walk away unscathed? No one dares. The thought alone is an insult to my intelligence."
Jacob gave a slow, respectful nod, his smirk returning. He opened his mouth as if to offer a word of praise, but Tate sliced through the air with a quick, dismissive gesture.
"Keep your eyes on the things that matter, Jacob. The rest is merely noise. Do not lose focus."
Jacob bowed his head, sensing the boundary that had been drawn, and took his leave without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Tate in the stillness of his room.
Once the room was empty, Tate pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen, bringing up the feed from the small, hidden lens he had installed in Grace’s room. The image flickered to life.
There she was. She was already in bed, the blankets pulled up to her chin, her hair a disheveled mess against the pillow. In the dim light, she looked small, untethered from the world, and entirely unguarded. He stared at the screen, his jaw tight, his pulse thrumming in his temples.
He leaned back, the phone cradled in his palm, and whispered to the empty room, "What is wrong with me?"
He continued to watch, unable to tear his eyes away from the fragility of the image. The sight of her sleeping, so removed from the harshness of their reality. He cursed under his breath. He dropped his hand, the phone sliding onto the bedcovers, and stared up at the ceiling.
“Grace,” he told himself, the name feeling like a curse upon his lips, “you should not be the start of my damnation.”
- Writer
