novelraw Chapter 122: Too Gentle
Chapter 122: Too Gentle
Aurora’s POV
Oliver’s arms wrapped around me, and for the first time in my life, the safety of his embrace felt... quiet. Too gentle. He held me with such agonizing care, as if he thought I’d shatter if he squeezed too hard.
"Nothing happened... I just missed you," he murmured into my hair, his voice smooth and melodic. "I hated being away from you, my love. I believe you were lonely while I was gone."
I stiffened. Lonely. He didn’t know. He thought I’d been tucked away in my bed, dreaming of his return, while I was actually pinned against a wall by an assassin who had made me scream for mercy. The guilt hit me like a physical blow, making my stomach churn.
"I’m fine, Oliver," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "Just... tired."
"Let me take care of you," he said softly. He led me toward the sofa, his hand resting politely on the small of my back. He didn’t grip my waist. He didn’t pull me flush against his heat. He just... guided me.
He sat me down and knelt before me, reaching for my hand. He began to massage my fingers with a slow, rhythmic gentleness. It was supposed to be soothing. It was supposed to be exactly what I needed after the trauma of Caspian’s attack. But as he spoke about his meetings in Canada—polite talk of borders and treaties—my mind drifted. I kept seeing those green lenses. I kept feeling the silk scarf biting into my wrists.
"Aurora? Are you listening?" Oliver asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
"Yes," I snapped, then immediately softened my tone. "Yes, sorry. Just... exhausted."
"You look a bit flushed," he noted, his voice dripping with that protective, King-like worry. "Maybe you should change out of that heavy sweater. It’s warm in here. I’ll make us some tea, and we can just... talk. Quietly. No pressure."
Tea. He wanted to drink tea and talk quietly.
I looked at his beautiful, perfect face—the face of the man I was supposed to love—and a horrifying thought crossed my mind. Raymond was right.
Safe was boring.
Last night, I was a slut to a monster who fucked me how he wanted. Now, I was a fragile doll to a King who was afraid to touch me too hard. I wanted to reach out and grab Oliver’s collar, to tell him to stop being so damn gentle, to show me the fire I now knew I craved. But I couldn’t. Because if I asked for the fire, he’d ask me how I knew it existed.
"Tea sounds lovely, Oliver," I said, forcing a smile that felt like a mask.
I watched him walk toward the kitchen. He was everything a woman should want. So why did I find myself wishing he’d turn around, shove the tea tray aside, and fuck me the way Raymond had?
I tucked my hands under my thighs to hide their shaking. I was in love with a King, but I was haunted by a faceless man.
I watched Oliver return from the kitchen, the porcelain cups clinking softly against the tray. He moved with such grace, such regal composure. He set the tea down on the mahogany table and poured a cup for me, the steam rising in a gentle swirl.
"Drink, Aurora," he said, his voice a soothing balm. "It will help you relax."
I took a sip, the herbal liquid warm but tasteless compared to the fire still simmering in my blood. My mind was a chaotic mess of guilt and craving.
"I’ve been thinking," Oliver began, settling beside me and resting a hand—light as a feather—on my knee. "Maybe it’s time you moved into the packhouse permanently. I don’t like you being alone in that apartment, especially with the city being so unsettled lately. I want you where I can protect you."
I swallowed hard, the tea suddenly feeling like lead in my throat. Moving to the packhouse meant being under his watchful eye twenty-four hours a day. It meant the heavy gates, the guards, and the stifling royal protocols. It meant I would find it almost impossible to see Raymond again without Oliver knowing.
I frowned, a sudden flash of self-loathing hitting me. Why am I even considering meeting Raymond again? He was a masked stranger, an assassin. And yet, the thought of never feeling his rough grip again made my chest tighten.
"I... I’ll think about it," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
Oliver seemed to sense my hesitation, but he didn’t push. He never pushed. He leaned in, cupping my face with his palms, and kissed me tenderly. His lips were soft, hesitant, as if he were afraid of bruising me.
I couldn’t take the gentleness anymore. I leaned into him, kissing him back hungrily, my tongue seeking his, my hands tangling in his hair to pull him closer. I wanted to feel that spark, that explosion of heat I’d felt in my bedroom last night.
"Calm down, baby," Oliver whispered, pulling back just an inch, his eyes swimming with concern. "You might still be sore."
I frowned, the irony of his words stinging. The joke was on him. He thought I was still recovering from our slow, worshipful lovemaking two days ago. He had no idea that I had been brutally fucked just hours ago—that a man named Raymond had seen the King’s mark on my shoulder and had proceeded to fuck me mercilessly anyway. Raymond hadn’t cared about my "soreness."
"I’m fine, Oliver," I urged, my voice dropping to a growl. I lunged for his lips again, kissing him roughly, trying to force a reaction, trying to find the beast behind the King.
"Aurora, stop," he said, firmly but kindly, catching my wrists. He gave me that look, the one that made me feel like a child. "I don’t want to injure you. You’re still healing, and I won’t be the cause of your pain."
Frustration boiled over, sharp and hot. I ripped my hands away from his and stood up, moving away from his lap.
"I am not a doll, Oliver!" I snapped, my chest heaving. "I’m not made of glass. Stop treating me like I’m about to break!"
I turned my back to him, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. My heart was racing.
God help me!
Standing here in the arms of my perfect King, all I wanted was to be back in the arms of a masked assassin.