Whispers in the Château
“Oh my god, you’re even hotter in person. I mean—look at him, Tracey. He’s like if sex and vengeance had a baby.”
— Nicola
I stood there in the quiet corridor of the château, my hand wrapped around Jasmine’s waist like she was the only thing tethering me to this place—this world. The light streaming in through the high windows caught the glint in her eyes, turning them molten, and for a moment, it was just us. No plans, no guests, no kingdom waiting to be claimed—just the woman who had turned every last inch of my carefully constructed life into something messy and alive.
The scent of freesia and old wood filled the air, grounding me even as my pulse thundered in my throat. Her laughter was soft, a breath against my neck, and I let it wash over me like a benediction. My fingers traced idle patterns along the small of her back, my thumb catching the edge of her spine, and I felt that ache again—deeper than lust, older than memory. An ache that said this was it. This was everything.
“Jasmine,” I murmured, my voice low and rough, edged with reverence. My thumb brushed along her jaw, and I watched the way her breath caught, the way her lips parted just slightly. “If I had my way, I’d keep you right here. Forever. Let the rest of them wait.”
She smiled—soft, knowing, wicked. And I felt my own mouth curve in response, because God, I was gone for her.
I groaned softly against Jasmine’s lips, that low, aching sound of a man torn between duty and desire—but mostly just ruined by the way she tastes when she says things like that. My hands slid lower, splaying across the curve of her hips like they belonged there. I leaned down, letting my breath ghost over her skin. My mouth curled into a smile, but there was no humour in it—only hunger.
“Must we?” I murmured back, my voice velvet-draped steel, brushing my nose against hers. The amusement in my tone was an illusion—underneath, I was already tasting the promise of what I wanted to do to her. “Because I was just considering the possibility of skipping introductions altogether, carrying you straight back to bed. Or the wine cellar. Or the library. I’m not picky, princess.”
She laughed, bright and unrestrained, and it cut through the tension like a blade wrapped in silk. I softened, just a fraction, because her laughter was the only sound that could pull me back from the edge of that want. Of course she was right. Guests were waiting—people who mattered, the kind of family you build with blood and fire and late-night confessions. They’d come for her. For us. They deserved to be seen.
I sighed, letting the theatrical edge of my tone bleed through.
“Alright,” I drawled, every word a gentle rebuke to the part of me that wanted to steal her away. “Let’s go greet your perfectly lovely tornado of a bridal party.”
But before we stepped out of the shadow of the doorway, I caught her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up to mine. My lips brushed hers, slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that didn’t rush to the finish but lingered, sank in deep—like a brand she’d carry in her marrow. When I pulled back, I let the last word slip out low and dangerous.
“Just know,” I whispered, my voice a promise wrapped in velvet and iron, “the second we’re done smiling and being charming, I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to. And you’ll be lucky if you remember your own name, let alone anyone else’s.”
I felt it—the way her teeth caught her lip, the smallest hitch in her breath. A flicker of heat that she thought she’d hidden behind that careful composure. But she’d forgotten who she was standing with—how I read every fracture in her calm like scripture. My little actress. She thought she wore the mask well, but I saw right through her. Every time. I let her have it, though—her mask, her delicate illusion of control. I didn’t mind. I loved it, actually. Because underneath it all, her fingers stayed wrapped around mine like she couldn’t quite let go of the truth we both knew.
We stepped out onto the wide stone steps just as the first car rumbled up the gravel drive, a thin haze of dust shimmering in the early French light. The courtyard was quiet for a moment, like the whole world was holding its breath for this moment. I looked down at her, that smile she loved so much curving my mouth.
“You ready, Mrs. Llewellyn?” My voice was soft but edged with that possessive bite, a reminder that no matter how many faces we smiled at today, she was mine. I turned away then, slipping into that role she’d seen a thousand times—the charming host, the man who could make anyone feel welcome. But I never let go of her hand. My thumb traced circles on the back of it—silent, intimate promises written in skin. Let them see the polished mask; only she felt the truth of it in the secret press of my touch.
I watched her sprint down the steps—barefoot joy in motion—and it was like watching the sun shatter through cathedral glass. She was alive in a way that made the air itself seem brighter. Her arms flung around Tracey first, then Nicola, then Daniel—every reunion a small, fierce act of defiance against everything she’d survived. The laughter was louder than the wind, raw and real, and it cracked me open in the best possible way.
Nicola’s voice cut through, all champagne bubbles and too much truth.
“Oh my god, you’re even hotter in person,” she declared, eyes locking on me with predatory delight. “I mean—look at him, Tracey. He’s like if sex and vengeance had a baby.”
I couldn’t help the smirk that curved my lips, stepping forward at last. Jude trailed in my wake, his expression somewhere between exasperation and resignation—like he’d spent the entire drive here trying to find the nearest exit strategy.
“What did she say?” I murmured to him, low enough that only he heard.
He didn’t even blink. “Something about installing a stripper pole in the east wing. And whether I’d modelled for Calvin Klein in the nineties. I declined to answer.”
I clapped a hand on his shoulder, my laugh sharp as a blade. “You survived. Barely.”
Then I let my gaze sweep over the group, letting each of them feel the weight of it—Tracey, steady as bedrock; Daniel, eyes that missed nothing; and Nicola, who looked at me like she already knew the shape of every sin I’d ever confessed. I liked her for it. She was exactly the kind of friend Jasmine would keep close—someone who’d never back down, even from me.
“Welcome to France,” I said, my voice warm enough to smooth over the steel beneath. My arm found its way around Jasmine’s waist when she stepped back to me, my fingers pressing lightly against the small of her back—claiming her even here, even now. “You’ve all been given rooms. Luggage is being delivered now. Unless Nicola already tried to take over the west wing?”
“She tried,” Jude muttered, that dry edge to his voice. “Something about needing ‘natural light and room to frolic.’”
I caught Jasmine’s gaze, the laughter in my eyes a mirror to the amusement dancing at the edge of her lips. My hand slid lower on her back, not subtle in the slightest.
“You sure these are your friends, kitten? Because I’m starting to think they’re here to test my willpower.”
Nicola’s grin was a dare. “Oh, honey. We are.”
Jasmine shot her a look—playful, exasperated, fond.
“Oh, definitely, Mr Control Freak. You’ll be sorely tested.” Then she smirked at Nicola, that wicked glint in her eyes that always made my blood run hot. “Jude promised a trade with you, by the way. That topless photo you still have of Rhys on your wall for a current one of him in his undies.”
I let out a single cough, sharp and unexpected, like I’d swallowed the heat in my throat and nearly choked on the laughter rising up in me. Nicola’s eyes lit up—she was a spark already looking for something to ignite, and I was the nearest flame.
“Wait—what?” she crowed, spinning on Jude like she’d just found a new toy. “You didn’t tell me that was on the table. Why are we even pretending to unpack? We could be negotiating shirtless peace treaties right now.”
Poor Jude looked like he was begging the gods to smite him on the spot. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed, the last breath of a man who’d seen too much chaos to find it amusing.
“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” he muttered, his voice already fraying. “She twisted my words. I said we don’t trade in war crimes.”
Nicola’s grin was feral, her wink a declaration of war. “Speak for yourself, Mr. Security. I’m not above blackmail if there’s lace involved.”
I let out a low chuckle, more amused than I had any right to be, my mouth close enough to Jasmine’s ear that she could feel the warmth of it.
“Oh my God, she wasn’t joking about the poster,” I muttered, shaking my head as though that would keep me from grinning like a wolf.
Nicola’s smile widened, bright and triumphant. “Still framed, still above my bed. Vintage, baby. It’s like fine wine. Gets better every time I walk past it.”
I gave her a look that was half-prayer, half-warning. “Right,” I said flatly. “That shoot was in Santorini, and I was young. Naive. Betrayed by the lighting team.”
She just raised a brow, eyes glittering. “Don’t be shy now. You were delicious. Still are, apparently.” Then she turned to Jasmine, voice syrupy with faux innocence. “And you live with that? I’d never get anything done.”
Jude, long-suffering and utterly resigned, let out a weary sigh. “Kill me. Someone. Anyone. I’ll even supply the rope.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, biting back the grin that threatened to break through. My eyes found Jasmine’s, one brow lifting in that silent challenge I knew she’d feel all the way down to her toes.
“Let’s get everyone inside before Jude commits ritual seppuku in the courtyard,” I said, my voice dry but laced with amusement.
Nicola just grinned wider. “That’s not the only thing rising in this courtyard—”
“Inside,” I ordered, my tone sharp but laughter still twisting at the edges. “Drinks are cold, staff’s waiting, and I think we’ve scandalized Jude enough for one afternoon.”
Nicola raised a finger, her tone light but her eyes still alight with mischief. “To be clear, I’m still waiting on my trade.”
I didn’t break stride, just smirked over my shoulder. “And I’m still waiting for therapy after that call.”
But I was smiling, broad and unrepentant, because this—this messy, vibrant chaos she’d brought to my doorstep—felt like forever. Felt like home.
Jasmine moved in beside me, her arms looped through Tracey and Nicola’s, her laughter bright as the French morning.
“We’ll get you your trade,” she teased, her voice warm and sure. “Since Rhys’s money is my money now, technically I pay Jude’s wages.”
I stopped dead in the doorway, one hand resting heavy on the antique bronze handle, turning just enough to let her see the glint in my eyes—the heat, the amusement, the unspoken command. “Oh, is that how it works now?” I asked slowly, each word dripping with mock offence and feral delight. “You’re paying Jude’s wages, are you?”
Jude didn’t even bother to argue—just stood there, dead-eyed, like he was already planning his new life in a monastery somewhere in the Alps.
I stepped into the hall fully, the light streaming through the stained glass in molten shards of red and gold, painting the stone with fire.
“So if you pay Jude,” I murmured, voice low and dangerous, “and Jude owes Nicola a photo… does that make me public property now?”
I turned to them all—Tracey laughing softly, Nicola already picturing her new shrine, and Jasmine looking like she’d just claimed the world and was daring anyone to take it from her. My gaze dropped to the way her arms tangled with theirs, her steps bouncing with that light that only she could carry. My pulse kicked in my throat. She was everything. She was mine.
I moved forward, letting each deliberate step echo in the hush of the corridor.
She watched me come, her lips parting just a fraction—breath catching, pulse skipping, the air between us crackling.
“You want to talk about ownership, kitten?” I murmured when I reached her, my hands finding her waist and holding her there like a promise. “Because I’m fairly certain it was you who said, ‘what’s mine is yours,’ not the other way around. But let’s make one thing perfectly clear—if my abs end up on someone’s wall again, the only trade I’ll be accepting is you… bound to our headboard, breathless, whispering my name like a prayer.”
Nicola let out a theatrical cough, feigning scandal, her laughter ringing off the stone.
“Jesus, warn a girl before you go full ‘Fifty Shades’ in the foyer.”
I turned, not even pretending to be chastened, my hand still heavy on Jasmine’s hip.
“You’ve been warned.”
Jasmine stuck her tongue out at me, that little wrinkle of her nose that I’d never stop craving.
“Don’t lie, Nicola, you love ‘50 Shades.’”
Nicola gasped, the sound dripping with theatrical drama.
“For the record, everyone loved ‘50 Shades.’ That man owned a helicopter. And a red room. And, apparently, the blueprint for Rhys Llewellyn.”
I arched a brow, lips curling in a slow, predatory smile.
“That man bought a company just to stalk his girlfriend.”
Nicola didn’t miss a beat, her grin pure victory.
“You bought a villa for your fiancée. Checkmate, CEO.”
