Capricorn, p.6
Capricorn, page 6
“Miss Van Buren?”
A deep baritone cuts through the haze, snapping me back to awareness, and I register a man sitting across from me, hands folded in his lap. His eyes are an unusual shade of grey, almost colorless in the soft light of the room. Vaguely, I remember seeing him last night at dinner.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You were looking right at me.”
I muster a lift of my shoulder.
“It’s unfortunate we’re having our first proper meeting under these circumstances.” He rests an elbow on the armrest, his square jaw framed by a well-manicured hand. The crisp navy of his suit is free of imperfections, each stitch a tailored work of art. “I’m Dr. Price.”
Another shrug.
“I’m here to help you, Novalee.”
“Are we dropping the formalities already?”
His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”
“Sixty seconds ago, you addressed me by my surname.”
“Is it important that I use your surname?”
“No, just an observation.”
Several beats pass.
I stare at him. He stares back.
“Are we going to sit in silence to pass the time?” he asks, leaning forward. “Or will you indulge me in a conversation?”
My lips press together.
“I don’t mind. Silence can be as telling as words.” His lips curve into something resembling a smile. “I’ve cleared my schedule for the night.”
The insinuation threatens to yank me into surrender. Oliver, Liam, the doctor—they hold all the power. If I don’t cooperate, I’ll be stuck here indefinitely. Still, I can’t bring myself to take the bait.
Dr. Price exhales through his nose, an enduring sort of amusement in his gaze. “Or we can play the silent game.” He dusts an imaginary speck from his knee. “You might win, for a while.”
With a sigh, I take in the room, from the cozy fireplace in the corner to the mullion windows facing the grounds. Astrid is gone, so I’m guessing she left upon his arrival.
I turn back to Dr. Price. “Is this session confidential?”
“Outside of the Brotherhood? Of course.”
A humorless laugh bursts free. “Of course.”
“You don’t trust the men in this tower. That much is obvious.”
“Perceptive,” I mutter.
“And yet, I imagine you’re perceptive as well.” Unfazed, he shifts toward the edge of his seat, fingers raking through his thick blond hair, trimmed short at the sides. “Tell me, Novalee, what do you think I’m here to talk about?”
The question sinks into the quiet, an invitation and a trap all at once. I hold my tongue, stubbornness and self-preservation fighting to win.
“I’ll make it easy for you,” he continues, his gratingly smooth voice pushing through the stillness. “Why don’t we start with last night?”
The room shrinks, walls closing in, as images tumble through my thoughts like shuffled film reels.
Liam, pulling me back from the brink.
Our desperate union in his penthouse, afterward.
His heartbreaking devastation.
I picture him buckling to the floor, dragging me with him, both of us trembling from cold and adrenaline. Regret slithers through me, and a chill skates across my skin. I brush my fingers over the gooseflesh rising on my arms.
“Your resistance is telling.” The doctor’s tone takes on a thoughtful cadence. “If there was nothing to be ashamed of, you’d have no trouble talking about it, would you?”
I snap my attention back to him, teeth clenched. He commands the space with practiced authority, but his words fall with a casual edge that shoots unease through me.
“Guilt often takes the shape of silence,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Or maybe it was something else. A cry for help? Is that why you were on the cliffs?”
I push the memory of last night’s snowy trek aside and focus on the fireplace, where the flames dance in pirouettes.
“I want to help you through this, Novalee, but I can’t do that unless you meet me somewhere in the middle. It doesn’t even have to be halfway, but I need you to give me something.”
“Last night was…”
Blurred from alcohol.
Drenched in grief.
Sharpened by guilt.
“Cold,” I finally answer.
He purses his full lips. “What else?”
“And dark.”
“Are you afraid of the dark?”
“Last night, I wasn’t.”
Numb to the core, I’d found the kind of darkness I’ve never experienced before, with its void inviting me into the fold, promising to swaddle me against pain and tragedy. In that moment, there wasn’t a scary thing about it.
“What prompted you to venture outside?” he asks, as if the answer is simple. As if he’s not dredging up the words I can’t unsay to Liam.
The guilt I can’t outrun.
I want to squirm, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“When was the last time you felt in control?” he asks, steering the conversation in a new direction, his voice gentler now, laced with persuasion.
“You mean…since I’ve been here?”
Never.
“I mean in your life, your body, your emotions.”
My lips part, but no answer comes.
“I imagine it’s been a while, but that’s what grief does, Novalee. It steals control and makes you powerless.”
“How do I get it back?” Instantly, I want to rewind time and tape my mouth shut.
“By understanding that it’s not about avoidance. Desire, grief, pain…” His fingers drum against the armrest. “Ignoring these emotions won’t make them disappear. They’ll just show up in other ways.”
“How so?”
“They can manifest as self-destruction, isolation, even resistance.”
“Resistance to what?” Unable to hide a scowl, I cross my arms. “To you?”
“Resistance to healing.”
“Oh, so you have the cure for that, do you?” I let out a mocking laugh. “That’s a good one.”
“Not a cure. A method.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
He nods, as if he understands. “Will you close your eyes for me?”
“Why?”
“Please, indulge me for a moment.”
Hesitation takes hold, but his patience lasts until my eyes flutter shut.
“Good,” he says. “I want you to think back to last night. You’re standing on the cliff. Tell me what you feel.”
Tilting my head back, I’m torn from the settee and thrust onto the icy ledge. “Snowflakes. They’re falling on my cheeks. I should be cold, but I’m not anymore.”
“Why aren’t you cold?”
“I’m not sure. The waves bring me comfort. I just feel…”
“Describe it.”
“I feel numb, and a…a sense of peace.”
“Let’s go back. Now you’re walking through the snow. What are you thinking about?”
“Sebastian.” His name escapes, raw on my tongue.
“Keep going,” he urges.
“I feel his ghost watching me.” Grief crushes my heart all over again, and my eyes pop open. “I don’t want to do this.”
Dr. Price studies me, peeling away my defenses, layer by layer. “You’re still standing on that cliff, Novalee. Even in this room.”
A blink sends hot drops down my face. “I don’t want to be.”
“Are you sure? Because you did try to jump, did you not?”
I should be indifferent, not crying in front of this man. But his questions cut deep, carving out every flimsy excuse.
“I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted to stop hurting so much.”
“What if I told you I have a way for you to let go of the pain?”
“I’m all ears, Doctor.” Sarcasm coats my words, but deep down, I want to believe there’s a way.
His focus sharpens, latching on to the fraying threads of my resolve.
“I’d like for you to explore the concept of delayed gratification.”
“Delayed…what?” Doesn’t he know I’m already an expert, baptized in denial my first month here?
“It’s a controlled response, a way to ease the mind and body into recognizing that pleasure, like pain, isn’t something that controls you. You control it.”
Shameful heat spirals low in my belly. “What do you suggest?”
“Tonight, when you’re in bed, I want you to bring yourself to the edge of orgasm. Picture the cliff. But this time, instead of jumping, you’ll take your power back.”
I swallow, fingers gripping the cushion beneath me. “You’re telling me not to…come?”
“Control is yours, Novalee.” A twitch of a smile pulls at his mouth. “The longer you hold out, the stronger your power grows. Don’t climax tonight, or even tomorrow. Draw it out. You’ll know when it’s time to let go.”
“This method sounds…” I search for the right words. “Strange, coming from a shrink.”
“I specialize in sexuality.” He glances at the clock. “And unfortunately, that’s all the time we have.”
“I thought you cleared your schedule?” I hold his gaze, brows arched in challenge.
“You gave me exactly what I needed. There’s no need to keep you.”
I blink, momentarily thrown.
A game. That’s what this is.
An illusion of choice.
The quiet manipulation of my mind.
And I’m already playing—my queen’s piece moving across the board before I realize the match has begun.
10
The sun is slipping below the horizon when I return to the House of Capricorn. Golden light slants across the floor, while the richness of seared steak and garlic butter drifts through the air. For the first time in weeks, my mouth actually waters.
I’m hungry.
I follow the scent, Astrid trailing behind, but Sebastian’s paintings catch my eye. The session with the shrink left me too raw to face them, so I push past the urge and step into the kitchen. Dirty pots and pans clutter the counter beside the stove.
Did Oliver cook?
That’s unexpected. He seems the type to have his meals sent up by the staff. I make my way into the dining room, and there he is, seated at the head of an oblong rustic table. In the center, fluttering candles surround a vase of white carnations.
Oliver glances up, fork halfway to his lips, and smirks. “I figured you’d be famished after all the not talking you did during your session, so I took the liberty.” He nods toward the spot at the other end, where a plate awaits beneath a silver lid.
Sliding into the chair, I eye him with mock skepticism. “I didn’t realize the men in this tower knew how to cook. Should I be impressed or concerned?” I lift the lid to find a flawlessly browned steak, roasted potatoes, and tender carrots bathed in a glaze. “Or was this more of a ‘supervise while you drink’ kind of effort?”
A twitch of amusement pulls at his mouth. “I can work up a sweat when motivated.” His gaze drops to my cleavage, eyes darkening to warm espresso, and something unwanted stirs between my legs. I’m so caught off guard, I don’t notice Astrid’s voice cutting through the charged moment until it’s already breaking the spell.
“I’ll take supper in the queen’s suite,” she says, reminding me we aren’t alone.
Oliver doesn’t acknowledge her, but I catch the flick of his fingers as he dismisses my babysitter. She vanishes from the room, and in her absence, his scrutiny screams at me. I’m halfway through my steak when he breaks the silence.
“How was your session?” he asks, studying me over the rim of his glass.
“It was fine.”
“And short.” He takes a slow sip as I move the food around my plate. “Sully always did have a way of making people talk.”
“Then I guess he chose the right profession.”
“We all have our talents.”
“And what are your talents, Mr. Whitney?”
“Are we no longer on a first name basis?”
I shrug. “I suppose we are.”
“That’s disappointing.”
His response tips me off balance, and I frown. “Disappointing, how?”
“I was hoping to persuade you into calling me Sir.” He’s bold in the way he’s watching me—a meaningful lock of gazes that almost steals my breath.
Almost.
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Use the title and find out.”
Flustered by his smug innuendo, I cross my legs and force a mask of indifference, refusing to let him see how he’s getting under my skin. There’s something unsettling about his confidence, how he winds it around my neck like a trap.
The dynamic feels too familiar, another match in a smorgasbord of games that needs to end before I make the wrong move.
“Who’s the woman in those paintings?” I ask, reaching for the nearest thought.
The shift in conversation surprises us both.
Oliver leans back and spears a potato with his fork. “She’s in the past.”
“Evasive. I’m sure your hired shrink would have plenty to say about that.”
“Did you open up to Sully about Sebastian?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“No,” he says, drawing out the word, “I was talking about other things when you changed the subject.”
“Was she your girlfriend?”
His fork clanks against the table. “You’re not going to drop this, are you?”
“Not likely.”
He presses his lips together, holding back words that threaten to break free. “Her name was Talitha.”
Was.
A lump of sympathy rises in my chest. At best, his mystery woman broke his heart, though I have a feeling it’s much worse than a story of parted ways.
“What happened?” I ask, bracing myself.
“She died.”
His blunt answer lands between us with an echo of agony.
“So I understand what you’re going through.”
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, swallowing the ache in my throat. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
“It’s fine.” He shakes his head, waving off the apology. “It was a long time ago.”
Not long enough.
And it never will be.
He doesn’t voice it, but I hear his unspoken truth. His heart bears a permanent hole, like mine. The realization presses against my ribs, haunting the hollow spaces of my own loss. I should say something, offer a feeble platitude, but nothing feels adequate. Grief isn’t so easily erased.
“It’s been a long day.” I pull my hands back from the table. “May I be excused?”
“I haven’t presented my gift yet.” His tone prickles the back of my neck.
Because a gift from the Brotherhood is never just a gift.
I glance at the massive ring on my left hand and think back to that first dinner, that first offering, when Liam staked his claim. In this tower, gifts always come with strings.
Oliver’s easy confidence tells me this one is no different.
“You seem suspicious,” he says. “Don’t you enjoy gifts?”
“I don’t trust them, coming from the Brotherhood.”
“There’s no need to be wary.” He drags a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “This isn’t something you can unwrap.”
“Okay,” I concede begrudgingly. “I’m intrigued.”
“When you’re ready to know what’s behind the locked door,” he murmurs, savoring the slow tease of my curiosity, “just say the word.”
I know exactly which door he’s talking about, which word he wants me to say.
Sir.
“You’re assuming I want to know what’s inside.”
“Trust me. You will.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
The candlelight flickers, glinting in his eyes. “It’s a talent of mine.”
His words hang between us, with no elaboration offered.
Not that I want one.
I push back from the table, limbs sluggish with exhaustion, and try to ignore the certainty in his smirk. He already knows I won’t be able to stop thinking about what’s behind that door.
Why is it that once an unwanted thought is planted, it spreads like a weed, wild and uncontrollable?
By the time I retreat to my suite, sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. I toss and turn in bed as Oliver’s cryptic talents take center stage. Astrid’s breathing evened out an hour ago, but my thoughts spin through the day, trapped in the Brotherhood’s collective hamster wheel.
Oliver and his mysterious door.
Dr. Sullivan Price and his method.
Liam and the aftermath of last night, when he made me come…twice.
The shrink is right about one thing—it all comes down to control. I lost it with Ford, and then on that cliff, and afterward…
In Liam’s bed.
I gave him something I’ve only ever given one man. Regret floods my veins, but a small part of me wouldn’t take it back, even if I could. That act of intimacy sparked life into me again.
He purged the denial from my bones and dragged me into acceptance. It was cathartic to the core, but it was still the essence of losing control.
Dr. Price’s mandate lurks in the quiet shadows of my suite, and I press my thighs together, an unconscious reaction, as a thread of need tugs at me.
An itch I don’t know how to scratch. Not on my own.
The men in this tower have always had a hand in my orgasm, whether by permission, participation, or design.
But the doctor’s challenge won’t leave me alone. Tentatively, I reach underneath my nightgown and slide a hand into my panties. Closing my eyes, I test the waters with slow, featherlight strokes over my clit. Sensation whispers through me before vanishing like smoke. Frustration leaves me restless and squirming.
This is ridiculous.
