Chapter 152

Chapter 39

Frustration gnawed at him, relentless and insatiable, burrowing under his skin like a parasite he couldn’t shake. With a growl of rage, he grabbed his phone and hurled it across the room, the sharp crack of plastic against the wall barely satisfying the storm brewing inside him. His fists clenched, his jaw locked tight, and he dragged a rough hand through his hair as he paced, his body thrumming with barely restrained energy.

Rejection burned through him like acid, scorching his pride, searing his ego. But worse—far worse—was the maddening truth he could no longer deny. One look at her, one glance into those wide, doe-like eyes, brimming with innocence and just a hint of something she didn’t even understand, and he was undone. His carefully constructed walls shattered, his control crumbled to dust. It was infuriating how effortlessly she unraveled him, how one tilt of her head, one flutter of her dark lashes, could reduce him to nothing more than a reckless, desperate man consumed by want.

Even now, with nothing but the memory of her lingering in his mind, heat coiled low in his stomach, thick and unbearable. His blood pounded in his veins, rushing south with a force he had no hope of stopping. He was hard—achingly, unbearably so—his body betraying him with ruthless precision.

Damn her.

Damn those soft lips, that delicate throat, the way her breath hitched when he stood too close.

In all these months that he had spent away from her. A dream had haunted him every night.

A vision of that dream now burned behind his eyes—her body arching beneath him, her skin flushed and dewy with desire, those same guileless eyes glazed with pleasure. He could almost feel the shape of her beneath his hands, even in the dream, the way she would shudder and sigh as he traced every curve, every dip, branding himself into her with every heated touch.

And God—God—the thought of sinking into her, of finally claiming her, made his head spin. He could almost feel it, the unbearable heat of her, slick and tight, drawing him in, her body clenching around him like she was made for him alone. He imagined her nails digging into his back, her lips parting on a gasp as he filled her, stretching her, consuming her inch by inch until there was nothing left between them. Until she was his, in every way that mattered.

A harsh breath tore from his throat, and he braced himself against the wall, his fingers digging into the cold surface.

This was madness.

She was driving him mad.

And the worst part?

He would let her. He would welcome it.

Goddamn it!

Graham raked his fingers through his hair, exhaling sharply as frustration clawed at his insides. He was doing it again—spiraling, losing himself in thoughts of her, in memories that refused to stay buried. And she wasn’t even in the damn room.

It infuriated him.

Three months ago, he had made his decision. He had told himself she wasn’t worth the effort, that he had wasted too much time already—chasing after a foolish, stubborn girl, trying to win her, convince her of what could have been. He had called himself a fool for wanting her so desperately, for lowering himself to the level of a man who begged. And so, he had let her go.

Or at least, he had thought he had.

But distance hadn’t done a damn thing to rid him of her. If anything, the last three months had been a slow, excruciating torment. He had removed her from his sight, yet she remained branded into his mind, haunting his nights, poisoning his thoughts. And the worst part?

He still wanted her.

It was a sickness now—this relentless, gnawing need that refused to be silenced. It burned through him like an addiction he couldn’t shake, like a hunger that only deepened with every passing day. He had spent sleepless nights tormented by visions of her—the shape of her body beneath that white dress, the elegant curve of her back, those endless legs wrapped in silk. And beneath it all, the unbearable thought of what lay beneath—the softness he had yet to touch, the warmth he had yet to claim.

The images were merciless.

He could almost feel the weight of her beneath him, the way her breath would hitch as he dragged his lips over her throat, the sweet, gasping sound she would make when he finally—finally—took her.

So, he had figured out a way to end this. Now and forever.

Graham had found the only way to sever the last, fraying connection between them—one final, decisive cut that would rid him of Isla for good. He would sell Thornfield Manor. Wipe away the last remnants of whatever fragile ties still bound them together. And then, maybe, just maybe, he could stop feeling like this.

This unbearable, unrelenting ache.

It was maddening, how easily she undid him. How a single look—just one glance from those wide, dark eyes—could leave him on edge, pulse hammering, body tight with a need that refused to dissipate. He had tried to ignore it, to fight it. Ever since she had left New York, he had done everything in his power to avoid her. He hadn’t spoken to her, hadn’t looked at her, hadn’t even allowed himself to think about her for too long. Because every time he did, his frustration only grew, pushing him closer to the breaking point.

And tonight—tonight had shattered whatever restraint he had left.

She had cornered him in his study, her voice trembling, her words laced with desperation as she spoke about what had happened in New York—about the things he had tried so hard to forget. And God help him, he had lost it.

The frustration, the longing, the sheer agony of wanting her and not having her had boiled over into something cruel. He had lashed out, not because he wanted to, but because he needed to—because if he didn’t, she would see too much. She would see that beneath his cold exterior, beneath the anger and the indifference, he was still just a man who burned for her.

So he had wounded her. Deliberately.

He had watched the way the color drained from her face when he threw his words at her like knives, when he offered her a deal laced with venom—one night with me, and I’ll keep Thornfield Manor. The shock in her eyes, the humiliation that flickered across her delicate features—it should have given him some form of satisfaction. Should have made him feel something other than this wretched need.

But it didn’t.

Maybe this would be a lesson to her. Maybe now she would finally understand the weight of her own words—when she had pleaded, when she had said she would do anything to save the estate. Maybe now she would realize what men truly wanted when she made such reckless promises.

Maybe now, she would finally stay away from him.

With a frustrated sigh, he kicked off his shoes, sending them skidding across the floor until they thudded against the cupboard. Running a hand through his hair, he exhaled sharply, his body still thrumming with restless energy. Sleep would be impossible like this. With a muttered curse, he turned toward the bathroom—perhaps a cold shower would do what sheer willpower couldn’t. Maybe, just maybe, it would cool the heat simmering beneath his skin and finally grant him some peace.

The house was cloaked in silence, save for the whisper of wind through the trees outside and the faint creaking of the wooden floor beneath her hesitant steps. Isla moved carefully, deliberately, as if even the air around her could betray her presence. From the west wing to the east, from the sanctuary of her room to the unknown depths of his. Never had the distance felt so vast, so impossible to cross. Not in the dead of night, when the lights had been extinguished and the house slumbered, oblivious to her turmoil.

Her legs trembled with every step, her breath shallow, heart hammering against her ribs like a wild thing desperate to break free. As she neared his door, a sudden wave of panic seized her. Her throat felt parched, as dry as a desert, and for a fleeting moment, she nearly turned back—told herself she should go to the kitchen, have a glass of water, gather her bearings before returning here.

But she knew herself too well.

If she left now, she wouldn’t return. The coward in her would win.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing air into her lungs, commanding herself to breathe.

The reason didn’t matter.

What mattered was this: she had made her choice. Tonight, she would surrender her innocence to a man of her choosing—a man who had once been her first love.

No, there would be no future between them, no whispered promises of forever. But she could at least give this to him. To herself. A last act of defiance against the cruel reality that had been forced upon her.

She almost laughed at her own foolish sentimentality. God, she was being dramatic. But the truth was undeniable—Graham had given her a choice tonight, an unspoken ultimatum. Her body in exchange for Thornfield Manor.

But in doing so, he had revealed something else.

He had already let go. Whether or not she saved the house, Graham had cut himself off from this place, from her, from everything that had once tethered him here. He had made his decision. He was leaving. Forever.

And that realization shattered her more than losing the manor ever could.

The last person she could call family, the last thread tying her to the past, to any semblance of belonging—he was walking away. Washing his hands of her.

A fresh wave of tears burned her eyes, but she swallowed them down, brushing them away with the back of her hand.

She couldn’t stop him. She had no right to. But if this was the end, then she wanted something of him to remain with her.

A memory.

Something she could hold onto long after he was gone.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the door, barely able to lift her hand. For a moment, she hesitated, heart skittering wildly in her chest.

And then, before fear could claim her, she knocked.
The Stormy Reclamation: A Marriage in Ruins
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