Goldsin (The Chrysophilist Trilogy Book 1)

The moment we enter my penthouse the heavy silence of the night surrounds us.

Aurelia stops in her tracks, her eyes darting around the place as if she’s a trapped animal. “Maybe I should just go home . . .”

A heavy feeling hammers in my chest. The thought of leaving her alone tonight gnaws at me. She’s been through enough, and I wasn’t there to prevent it from happening . . . I just need to have my eyes on her for the rest of the night.

“No.” The word comes out harsher than intended. “You’re staying here tonight. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her eyes lock with mine, and I can see the defiance in them. But she doesn’t argue back. Instead she chooses to follow me through the penthouse.

That’s my good girl.

We reach my bedroom, and I flick on the lights, revealing the king-size bed with its black silk sheets and the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer an unbeatable view of the Seattle skyline. A large abstract painting hangs on one wall, its vibrant colors and distorted shapes challenging the viewer’s perception. That’s why I love abstract paintings. I could lie in bed and stare at them for hours.

But it’s the pinboard next to it that truly tells a story, adorned with a collection of my favorite book quotes and various trinkets I’ve collected over the years. Each one holds a special memory. They’re more than just objects; these are fragments of my past. That’s why I didn’t add anything to remind me of Aurelia. Categorizing her as something that happened once and no longer exists would be wrong. That’s not her. She’s still a part of my present, something I refuse to let go of.

My eyes fall to the poem I pinned to the board, “The Chrysophilist” by Theodore Montclair. I read it every night before falling asleep, to the point I now know it by heart. Like a religion. A prayer.

Like a sinful spell for the heart.

“The Chrysophilist

It shines,

calling to you the first time you see it.

Never rusts,

but it does with your heart.

It gleams,

telling you it’s all you need.

Never wavers,

but it does with your judgment.

You can’t resist its call,

like a siren to a sailor.

But this time it’s different;

you’re not the only one being lured in.

The shine fades,

the rust takes over your body and soul.

Its weight drags you down into an abyss of greed and corruption.

And when you finally touch rock bottom,

there will be gold to cushion your fall.”

If we were at school, I’d know how to analyze the shit out of it.

It’s a sick joke. Theodore Montclair and I share the same fate, but while he knew how to express himself with words, I prefer fists.

“Wait here,” I tell her, my tone softer this time.

Aurelia hesitates for a moment before nodding, and I leave her alone in the bedroom while I go into the connected bathroom to prepare a bath for her.

I turn the faucet and it groans to life. I watch the water fill the tub, the sound a soothing, steady harmony as it echoes off the bathroom tile. I turn the faucet further to the side and let warmer water stream down. Steam fills the air, sticking to my already damp skin.

Memories of tonight at the Den flood my mind.

The first image to appear is that son of a bitch who dared to put his filthy hands on her. But then guilt overpowers the memory and I start to feel like shit for being fucking blind to it all.

I was fighting in the ring when I saw Aurelia disappear with that piece of shit. In that moment I couldn’t care less about the thunderous cheer of the crowd or defending my title of Most Ruthless Fighter in Seattle. All that mattered was finding her and making sure she was safe.

With a vicious punch, I knocked my opponent out cold, giving the crowd one last opportunity to roar as I raced after her.

I found them just in time, but the anger and guilt still burn within me. Anger at him for touching her, and anger at myself for letting it happen.

But more than anger, the guilt is relentless.

All the punches I throw and all the victories I claim mean nothing if I can’t protect her.

I’m already failing at protecting someone else in my life—I can’t fail at protecting her too.

“Julian?” Aurelia’s voice startles me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I turn to face the door, my jaw clenching. “I’m almost done in here.”

“Okay.”

I hear her steps echo next as she walks around my room.

She’s probably taking in how much my room has changed since the last time she was here. Just like I did when I walked into hers.

With a final glance at the now full bathtub, I shut off the water and walk back to my room.

“It’s ready.”

Startled by my voice, her body jolts a little. She turns toward me and away from the poem she was reading.

“Thank you,” she whispers, eyes zeroing in on mine for just a second, enough to leave me wanting more of her attention. Those big green eyes are like a portal to a world of everlasting spring. It makes my chest tighten every single time I stare at them.

Forcing myself to focus on her, and not on the way she awakens my whole body, I follow her into the bathroom.

I can’t help but watch her, taking in the way the light plays on her fiery red hair and the curve of her hips as she moves. Despite everything that’s happened between us, she is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

But I have to remind myself that tonight isn’t about lust or desire. It’s about taking care of her and making sure she feels safe.

“Is that . . . my favorite honey bodywash I smell?”

Apivita Royal Honey. After being in her room the other day, I couldn’t shake her smell, so I went and bought it. Simple.

If I had to be haunted by it, might as well make it right. Plus, it seriously leaves the skin smooth. Emeric wanted to buy himself a bottle, but I punched the guy. Fuck if I want my best friend to smell like the girl of my dreams.

“Come here,” is all I say in response, ignoring her question.

She steps closer to me, her gaze hesitant but trusting.

As tempting as it is to let my hands wander over her body, I remain focused on the task at hand.

“What are you doing?” Her voice wavers slightly as I reach for the hem of her dress. Yet she doesn’t distance herself. Trust shines in her inquiring eyes, feeding me into oblivion.

“Taking care of you,” I reply, keeping my tone gentle yet firm.

Slowly I lift the material, exposing her skin inch by tantalizing inch. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the sight of her: the smooth expanse of her pale stomach, the delicate curve of her waist, the way her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath.

God, she is perfect.

“Julian . . .” she whispers, a hint of vulnerability lacing her voice.

The way she says my name could shatter my resolve if I let it. But I can’t allow myself to be distracted. This is about her, not us.

“Relax,” I murmur, pulling her dress up and over her head, leaving her standing before me in just her lingerie.

My fingers itch to trace every line and curve of her body. To explore every inch of her until I know her better than I know myself. But instead I continue undressing her, carefully sliding the cream mesh thong down her legs.

“Step out,” I instruct softly, and she obeys without hesitation, kicking the thong aside. All that remains now is her smooth silk satin bra.

The cream material barely contains the swell of her breasts.

“Turn around.”

As she does, I reach for the clasp, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of her back. I can’t help but let out a silent groan at the contact, my body aching with need for her.

“Julian, I don’t . . .” she says, but I cut her off.

“Trust me,” is all I say as I unhook her bra and let it fall to the floor, leaving her completely exposed to my ravenous gaze.

She turns around and my eyes roam her body hungrily, taking in her rosy nipples peaking at the cool temperature, the curve of her hips, the soft triangle of hair between her thighs. She is flawless, an ethereal goddess standing before me in all her naked glory.

“Into the tub,” I instruct gently, guiding her toward the steaming water. As I help her step in I let warm water cascade over her hair and her shoulders, careful to avoid her eyes.

She looks up at me then, her eyes searching mine for reassurance.

“Shouldn’t you be the one taking a bath?” she asks softly, gesturing toward my body. “You’re the one who’s covered in the most blood.”

“Shh.”

Silently, I squeeze some soap onto the sponge and lather her body, starting with her feet.

She shivers as I take each foot in turn, massaging and cleaning them with tender precision.

My touch is gentle as I move to her legs, working my way up to her inner thighs, which elicits a soft moan from her lips. God, the sound she makes is like a siren call, beckoning me closer to the edge of control.

“You can’t resist its call,

like a siren to a sailor.”

Her eyes flutter closed. The stiffness of her muscles gradually fades as she lets me take full care of her body, trusting me to make her feel good. Safe.

As I continue to wash her I mentally trace the cuts and bruises on my own body, using them as a guide for where I need to pay extra attention to hers. I don’t want her to have to relive the horrific experience by asking her where she was touched; I want her to relax and forget about everything that happened, if only for a little while.

“Is this okay?” I ask as I move to her breasts, washing them gently but thoroughly.

She nods in response, her eyes fluttering closed as I move on to the next spot.

I’m finishing rinsing her body when she whispers my name. Her voice is filled with a tenderness that threatens to break me.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, golden one.” I step back and give her some space.

Something moves behind her eyes at hearing the nickname. That tenderness falters.

I grab the towel and envelop her in it.

I know I’ve done what I set out to do—taken care of her and helped her feel safe, like I failed to do at the Den—but it doesn’t make it any easier to walk away from her. Especially when all I want is to be close to her; to hold her in my arms and lose myself in her warmth.

But I can’t. Not yet.

I gently dry every crevice of her body before my fingers find their way to her wet locks of hair. The soft, damp strands feel like silk between my fingers, and I can’t help but marvel at how vibrant and beautiful they are.

“Your hair,” I hear myself murmur as I run my fingers through it again.

Aurelia chuckles softly, catching me off-guard with the unexpected sound. “You’ve seen it before, you know.”

“Never like this,” I admit, letting my fingers linger in her curls for just a moment longer.

Memories of all the times I’d watch her hair bounce whenever she burst into laughter, or the way it curled perfectly around my fingers when I played with it while she slept, flood my mind.

“It’s been years since I’ve seen it so . . . alive.”

She looks at me then, her eyes shining with something I can’t quite place.

There’s no denying the unspoken words that dance in the air as we stare at one another. This push and pull, it’s a dangerous game, and one day it will all come crashing down on us. That’s why I pushed her away . . . although now all I want is to pull her in.

“And when you finally touch rock bottom,

there will be gold to cushion your fall.”

But not tonight.

Tonight she needs me to be strong for her, to help her forget the horrors of the night and find some semblance of peace.

“Come on,” I say, leading her over to the large mirror on the wall.

She looks puzzled as I reach into the cabinet and pull out a hair diffuser, and I grin as I plug it in and gesture for her to sit down.

“Let me handle this.”

“Wait—you have a hair diffuser? And you actually know how to use it?” Aurelia raises a brow in disbelief. “Is that curling gel?” Her eyes round as she spots the pink bottle on the counter.

“Of course,” I reply with a smirk. “I’m full of surprises.”

“Clearly,” she mutters, still looking somewhat baffled by the situation. “But really, I can do it. You don’t have to⁠—”

“No,” I insist, cutting her off. “I want to. I want you to keep your natural curls and not straighten them.” I meet her gaze in the mirror, my eyes softening as I add, “They’re beautiful.”

Just like you.

Aurelia hesitates for a moment but ultimately relents, allowing me to take control of the situation and dry her hair. She sits quietly, watching me in the mirror as I carefully manipulate the diffuser, coaxing her curls into a voluminous, fiery crown that seems to defy gravity itself.

My movements are precise, yet it takes me longer than I’d like to admit as I try to grab hold of her hair, making sure to dry every strand.

When I’m finished I step back to admire my handiwork, feeling a strange sense of pride swell within me.

It only took me nine or ten late nights spent watching tutorials to finally master it.

I know she hates her hair from all the meaningless, hurtful comments members of the Inferno Consortium have made. The ladies make their remarks out of jealousy, because of her youth, while their husbands do so out of pure boredom.

Aurelia’s stubborn. She’ll never style it like this. But I’m relentless, and if she won’t do it, then I’ll do it for her. I want her to love every inch of herself like I do; I want her to stop hiding behind the version of her they created.

Or maybe, just maybe, I want her to look like she did before I sent everything to shit.

“There,” I say, giving her a small smile. “Perfect.”

“Thank you.” Her voice is barely above a whisper as she reaches up to touch her hair, brushing the soft curls, lost in thought. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen it like this.”

“Then wear it like this more often,” I tell her, my voice gentle yet firm. “You should never be ashamed of who you are, Aurelia.”

She looks at me then, her green eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and for a moment I think she might break down. But she doesn’t. Instead she nods, accepting my words as truth even if she doesn’t quite believe them herself. Not after all those years of verbal assault she went through because of her mother or her looks.

“Here.” I give her one of my shirts. “Put this on and get some rest. You’ve had a long night.”

As she slips my long-sleeve shirt on over her head, I can’t help but notice how big it is on her. The hem falls close to her knees, and the sleeves almost completely cover her hands. It’s strangely endearing, and I find myself fighting back a smile.

She’s mine, I lie to myself. She looks beautiful as mine.

“Shut up.” She swats at me before crossing her arms over her chest.

“I didn’t say anything.” The corner of my lips threatens to pull upward, revealing the smile I’m trying to hide.

“You didn’t have to.” She looks down at herself with a hint of amusement.

“But if I did,” I say, my voice low, “I’d say how there’s something incredibly sexy about a woman wearing nothing but a man’s shirt.”

Aurelia blushes at my words, and I allow myself to bask in the view.

“Come on.” I guide her toward the bed.

She hesitates for a moment, looking almost nervous at the prospect of sharing a bed with me. I can’t blame her, given everything that happened tonight.

“Relax,” I tell her. “I promise I won’t bite . . . unless you ask me to, of course.”

Her cheeks flush pink, and I can’t help but fucking love it when she blushes like that. It makes her seem so innocent. When she really isn’t.

“Fine,” she mutters, still blushing as she climbs into my bed, pulling the covers up around her.

God, she looks absolutely perfect lying there in my shirt, her curls spilling over my pillow.

I have to remind myself that tonight has nothing to do with satisfying our desires, and everything to do with her.

“Are you coming to bed?” she asks, her voice soft and unsure as she glances back at me.

Fuck.

“Not until you fall asleep.” I try to sound casual even though my dick is rock-solid, straining against the confinement of my shorts.

The need to stretch out beside her and feel her body against mine is distressing; the urge to trace her curves with my fingers destructive.

I know if I lie down beside her, the temptation to touch her, taste her, will be too strong to resist. And while I may be many things—a liar, a criminal, a killer—I am not the kind of man who takes advantage of a woman when she’s vulnerable.

At least not tonight.

“Okay,” she says, still watching me with those big green eyes that seem to see right through me. “Just . . . don’t stay up all night because of me, all right?”

I give her a reassuring smile, stepping away from the bed and settling into a nearby chair, where I can keep watch over her as she sleeps.

My eyes never leave her figure as she snuggles down into my bed. She looks at me with mock confusion, knowing full well why I chose to sit here instead of joining her.

“Good night, Julian.” She smiles with her eyes closed.

“Good night, golden one,” I whisper back.

Seconds pass, and she’s fast asleep.

I stay in the corner of the room, my body tense from the earlier fight and the dreadfulness that came over me the moment I saw the fucker’s hands on her.

I keep my eyes on her. Steady. Like I’m scared something or someone could hurt her again.

She looks so peaceful as her chest softly rises and falls. Peaceful, but not at peace. Just like me, she has this entity raging inside of her, eating at her with each passing day.

I stare at her, and I can’t help but think of how this silence surrounding us only serves as a false sense of serenity. We aren’t normal people, and there’s no simple life waiting for us once the sun rises.

We aren’t the kids we used to be.

And yet as she sleeps, caressed by the moonlight, she looks just like she did the first time I saw her. Just like that little girl blinded by her surroundings as she giggled to herself, running through the green field, trying to catch up to the blue butterfly that was on her nose seconds ago.

They call her the golden one, the lucky girl who survived the life she was born into. The chosen one. They call her this in mockery. Because she’s an orphan, gilded by our lifestyle.

But I decided to call her the golden one because in that moment, when I turned toward the erupting giggles, I finally saw a person living. Truly living; truly happy.

A girl with red hair, kissed by the sun’s rays.

A girl with red hair, kissed by life.

And when you grow up to be a reaper, you can’t help but become obsessed.

Obsessed to the point of killing her.

But within that lies the irony, because if she dies, I lose my purpose to live.

And God, all I ever wished for before her was just that.

To die.