The hours after the kiss stretched taut as a bowstring, each tick of the clock a reminder of the storm Eleanor had unleashed. She avoided the library, the stables, anywhere Julian might be, retreating to her chamber with a book she didn't read and a tea tray she didn't touch. Her lips still burned with the memory of him—his taste, his heat, the way he'd met her fury with his own. She'd pulled back, yes, but the want lingered, a tide she couldn't outrun.
Dinner came and went, a blur of Reginald's grumbling and Beatrice's chatter. Julian was there, his presence a silent flame across the table, but he didn't press her, didn't seek her out. His restraint only stoked her restlessness. Two days left, and the choice loomed—trust him, join him, or let him go. But beneath it all was a truth she couldn't deny: she didn't want him to leave.
Night fell, the manor settling into its creaking hush. She paced her room, her nightgown brushing her calves, her hair loose and wild. Tonight, she'd told him. We'll talk tonight. But words felt flimsy now, a shield against the pull she couldn't shake. A knock broke her reverie—soft, deliberate—and her heart leapt.
She opened the door to find Julian, his shirt untucked, his eyes dark and searching. "You said tonight," he murmured, his voice low, rough with something unspoken.
"I did," she replied, stepping back to let him in. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in a space that felt too small, too charged.
He didn't move closer, his hands flexing at his sides as if fighting to stay still. "What do you want, Eleanor?" he asked, his gaze steady. "No games. Just tell me."
She swallowed, her throat dry. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I want to hate you. I want to trust you. I want…" She faltered, her hands clenching in the fabric of her gown. "I want you to stay."
His breath hitched, a crack in his control. "Say that again," he said, stepping forward, his voice a velvet command.
"I want you to stay," she repeated, stronger now, her eyes locking with his. "Not for Ashwood, not for your damn harbor. For me."
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his hands framing her face as his lips claimed hers. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, a fire banked but no less fierce. She melted into it, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the thud of his heart beneath her palms. He groaned against her mouth, a sound that sent heat pooling low in her belly, and she pressed herself closer, needing more.
"Eleanor," he rasped, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. "If we do this—"
"We're doing it," she cut in, her voice firm despite the tremor in her limbs. "No regrets, Julian. Not tonight."
His eyes darkened, a storm breaking, and he kissed her again, harder this time, his hands sliding down her back to grip her hips. She tugged at his shirt, impatient, and he broke away long enough to yank it over his head, tossing it aside. Her breath caught at the sight of him—broad shoulders, scarred chest, the taut lines of a body forged by years at sea.
She reached for him, her fingers tracing the scars, the muscle, and he shuddered under her touch. "You're beautiful," she whispered, the words slipping out unbidden.
"You're the beautiful one," he murmured, his hands finding the hem of her nightgown. "May I?"
She nodded, and he lifted it over her head, the fabric whispering to the floor. The cool air hit her skin, but his gaze warmed her, hungry and reverent as it roamed over her bare form. She should've felt exposed, vulnerable, but with him, she felt powerful, alive.
He pulled her against him, skin to skin, and the contact was electric. His mouth found her neck, kissing a trail down to her collarbone, and she gasped, her hands tangling in his hair. "Julian," she breathed, her voice a plea.
He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed and laying her down with a gentleness that belied the fire in his eyes. He hovered over her, his lips brushing hers as he whispered, "Tell me what you want."
"Everything," she said, pulling him down, and he obliged, his hands and mouth mapping her body with a hunger that matched her own.
The world narrowed to sensation—his calloused fingers sliding over her breasts, teasing her nipples until she arched beneath him; his lips following, hot and insistent, drawing a moan from her throat. She clawed at his back, urging him closer, and he groaned, shifting to shed his trousers. When he pressed himself against her, hard and ready, she wrapped her legs around him, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Eleanor," he growled, his voice thick with need. "Look at me."
She did, meeting his gaze as he entered her, slow at first, then deeper, filling her with a heat that stole her breath. She cried out, her body stretching to take him, and he stilled, giving her time to adjust. "You all right?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Yes," she gasped, rocking her hips to urge him on. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He moved with her, a rhythm that built like a tide—steady, then relentless, each thrust stoking the fire between them. She clung to him, her moans mingling with his, the bed creaking beneath their weight. The pleasure coiled tight, sharp, and when it broke, she shattered with a cry, her body trembling as waves crashed through her. He followed moments later, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep, his release pulsing inside her.
They collapsed together, breathless, tangled in sweat and sheets. He rolled to his side, pulling her against him, his arm heavy across her waist. For a long moment, they lay in silence, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant murmur of the sea.
"Regrets?" he asked at last, his voice soft against her hair.
"None," she replied, turning to face him. His eyes were warm, unguarded, and she traced the scar on his jaw, a smile tugging at her lips. "You?"
"Never," he said, kissing her forehead. "You're mine now, tempest and all."
She laughed, a light, free sound. "And you're mine, captain or not."
But the peace was fleeting. A sharp rap at the door jolted them upright, and Pippa's voice cut through the haze. "Milady! You awake? There's a man downstairs—says it's urgent!"
Eleanor's heart sank, dread replacing the warmth in her veins. Julian was already moving, pulling on his trousers with a curse. "Kell," he muttered, his face hardening. "He's early."
She scrambled from the bed, yanking her nightgown back on. "What does he want?"
"Trouble," Julian said, grabbing his shirt. "Stay here. I'll handle it."
"No," she snapped, tying her hair back. "We handle it. Together."
He paused, then nodded, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "Together, then."
They dressed quickly, the intimacy of moments ago replaced by a shared resolve. As they descended the stairs, the manor's silence felt ominous, the shadows deeper. Kell waited in the hall, his scar glinting in the lantern light, his expression grim.
"Harrow," he said, his voice flat. "Time's up. They want the debt now—or blood."
Eleanor's grip tightened on Julian's arm, her choice made in the heat of the night now tested by the cold edge of reality. One day left, and the storm was breaking.