Chapter 21
1453words
My fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him closer. The rational part of my brain—the part that remembered plans and revenge and professional boundaries—grew distant and hazy, drowned out by the thundering of my pulse and the heat of Felix's hands as they skimmed down my sides.
"Lyra," he breathed against my lips, pulling back slightly. "You've been drinking. We shouldn't—"
I silenced him with another kiss, more demanding than the last. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
And I did. Despite the alcohol, despite the nightmare, despite everything—this felt like the first clear choice I'd made since waking up in this second chance. Not calculated, not strategic, just pure want.
Felix studied my face for a heartbeat longer, searching for certainty. Whatever he saw there must have convinced him, because he pulled me back to him with a groan that vibrated through my body.
What followed was a blur of sensation—his mouth trailing fire down my neck, my hands pushing his t-shirt up and over his head, the revelation of skin against skin. The borrowed clothes I wore disappeared, along with the last of my hesitation.
In the darkness of the guest room, with Boston's lights twinkling beyond the windows, we came together with an intensity that felt both inevitable and impossible. Felix whispered my name like a prayer, his hands mapping my body as if committing it to memory. I clung to him, anchored by his strength as pleasure built and crested in waves that washed away everything but this moment, this man, this connection that defied time itself.
Afterward, wrapped in his arms with my head pillowed on his chest, I drifted into the first dreamless sleep I'd had since returning to this timeline.
---
Morning arrived with brutal clarity, sunlight streaming through windows I'd forgotten to close. I blinked awake slowly, disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings until memory rushed back—the auction, the bar, the nightmare.
Felix.
The space beside me was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Had he left? Regretted what happened? My stomach twisted with unexpected hurt.
Then I heard it—the soft clink of dishes from beyond the bedroom door. The scent of coffee wafted in, rich and promising. He hadn't left; he was making breakfast.
Reality crashed down with sobering force. I'd slept with Felix Blackwood. My ally in revenge. My employer. The man who somehow remembered my death across timelines.
"Oh god," I groaned, burying my face in the pillow.
What had I been thinking? This complicated everything. Professional boundaries shattered. Strategic alliance compromised. And worst of all, I couldn't even blame it entirely on the alcohol. I'd wanted him. Still wanted him, if the flutter in my stomach at the memory of his hands on my skin was any indication.
I forced myself out of bed, gathering the scattered clothes from the floor. Felix's t-shirt. My underwear hanging from the bedpost. Evidence of abandon I couldn't afford.
The bathroom mirror reflected a stranger—hair tousled beyond help, lips slightly swollen, a small mark blooming at the junction of neck and shoulder. I looked... claimed. The thought sent a shiver through me that wasn't entirely unpleasant.
After a quick shower, I dressed in yesterday's clothes, grimacing at the wrinkles in the once-elegant dress. No walk of shame in history had ever been more aptly named.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the bedroom door and followed the coffee scent to the kitchen. Felix stood at the stove, his back to me, spatula in hand. He'd dressed in casual weekend clothes—jeans and a soft-looking sweater that somehow made him more attractive than his usual suits.
He must have sensed my presence because he turned, spatula mid-flip. "Good morning."
Two simple words, yet they hung in the air between us, loaded with unspoken questions. His eyes met mine, searching for regret or awkwardness.
I found neither in myself, only a strange mixture of embarrassment and longing.
"Morning," I replied, my voice raspier than intended. "Coffee smells good."
Felix's shoulders relaxed fractionally. He gestured toward a mug already waiting on the counter. "Help yourself. Milk's in the fridge if you want it."
I crossed to the counter, maintaining a careful distance as I passed him. The mug was warm against my palms, the coffee strong and perfect. Felix returned his attention to the stove, where pancakes sizzled in a cast-iron pan.
"How's your head?" he asked, not looking at me.
"Surprisingly functional." I leaned against the counter, watching him cook. "Your guest room has excellent blackout curtains."
"Those weren't the curtains," Felix said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You forgot to close them."
Heat crept up my neck. "Oh."
Silence stretched between us, not quite uncomfortable but charged with awareness. Felix flipped another pancake with practiced ease.
"About last night—" we both began simultaneously, then stopped.
"You first," I said, clutching my coffee mug like a shield.
Felix set down the spatula and turned to face me fully. "I want to be clear that I don't make a habit of... what happened... with colleagues. Especially not when they've been drinking."
My stomach dropped. Here came the regret, the professional backpedaling.
"I understand," I said stiffly. "It was a mistake."
"I didn't say that." Felix took a step toward me, then stopped himself. "I said I don't make a habit of it. Not that I regret it."
Oh.
"What I'm trying to say," he continued, running a hand through his hair in a gesture I was beginning to recognize as nervousness, "is that I respect you. Your work. Your... mission, whatever it may be. And I don't want you to think I took advantage of a vulnerable moment."
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't the smooth, controlled Felix Blackwood who commanded boardrooms and outbid his cousin at auctions. This was a man genuinely concerned about my feelings, my agency.
"You didn't," I said softly. "Take advantage, I mean. If anything, I—"
The smoke alarm's shrill beep cut me off. Felix whirled back to the stove, where the forgotten pancake had begun to smoke.
"Damn it!" He grabbed the pan off the heat, waving a kitchen towel at the alarm until it fell silent.
The moment shattered, we stared at each other across the kitchen—Felix holding a pan with a charred pancake, me clutching my coffee mug—and something bubbled up inside me. Laughter, unexpected and genuine, spilled from my lips.
After a startled moment, Felix joined in, his deep chuckle harmonizing with my giggles. The tension between us dissolved, replaced by something warmer, more comfortable.
"I think breakfast is a lost cause," he said, dumping the burnt pancake into the trash.
"I wasn't that hungry anyway." I set down my mug and took a tentative step toward him. "Felix, about last night..."
He waited, not pushing, giving me space to find my words.
"I don't regret it either," I said finally. "But it does... change things between us."
Felix nodded slowly. "Yes, it does."
"And I'm not sure what to do with that." The admission cost me, vulnerability still an uncomfortable fit.
"We don't have to figure it all out right now." Felix closed the distance between us, stopping just short of touching me. "We can take it one day at a time. Focus on the work, on Alexander and Vivienne, on finding the evidence we need."
"And this?" I gestured between us. "Whatever this is?"
A smile touched his lips, genuine and warm. "This will be here when we're ready to face it."
The simplicity of his answer loosened something tight in my chest. No demands, no expectations, just acknowledgment of a connection neither of us had sought but both now recognized.
"Okay," I agreed. "One day at a time."
Felix's hand lifted, hesitated, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture sent warmth spreading through me.
"Starting with getting you home to change," he said, his fingers lingering against my cheek. "Unless you plan to analyze forgeries in evening wear."
I laughed, the sound lighter than I could remember it being since waking up in this second chance. "Probably not the most practical lab attire."
As Felix drove me home later, the city bright and busy around us, I found myself watching his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the slight curl of hair at his nape, the hands that had mapped my body hours earlier now competently guiding the car through traffic.
