needed to be turned on mentally before they were turned on physically. The brain was their largest erogenous zone, with their skin coming in second. And so Drakon loved to seduce his partner slowly, teasing her, playing with her, whetting the appetite and creating anticipation, because sex was how he bonded. It’s how he felt close to his woman. It was how he felt safe expressing himself.
And yet she hadn’t felt safe with him. She hadn’t even enjoyed being with him. Their lovemaking had disgusted her. He had disgusted her. He’d turned off Morgan.
Drakon’s stomach heaved. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.
How stupid he’d been. Moronic.
No wonder she’d left him. No wonder she’d waited until he had flown to London for the day. He had only been away for the day, having flown out early on his jet, returning for a late dinner. But when he had entered their villa in Ekali, a northern suburb of Athens, the villa had been dark. No staff. No dinner. No welcome. No Morgan.
He remembered being blindsided that night. Remembered thinking, he could go without dinner, could live without food, but he couldn’t live without Morgan.
He’d called her that night, but she didn’t answer. He’d left a message. Left another. Had flown to see her. She wasn’t to be found.
He’d called again, left another message, asking her to come home. She didn’t. She wouldn’t even speak to him, forcing him instead to interact with her trio of attorneys as they informed him that their client was filing for divorce and moving on with her life, without him.
His surprise gave way to frustration and fury, but he never lost his temper with her. He tried to remain cool, focused, pragmatic. Things had a way of working out. He needed to be patient, and he refused to divorce her, insisting he wouldn’t agree to a divorce until she met with him. Sat down and talked with him. In person.
She wouldn’t. And so for two years her attorneys had battled on her behalf, while Drakon had battled back. His wife would not leave him without giving him a proper explanation. His wife could not just walk away on a whim.
While the Copeland attorneys filed their lawsuits and counter lawsuits, Drakon had made repeated attempts to see Morgan. But every attempt to reach her was stymied. Her cell phone was disconnected. He had no idea where she was living. Her family would only say she’d gone away indefinitely. Drakon had hired private investigators to find her, but they couldn’t. Morgan had vanished.
For two and a half years she’d vanished into thin air.
And then in October she had reappeared, emerging again on the New York social scene.
The private investigators sent Drakon her address, a high-rent loft in SoHo, paid for by her father. She’d started her own business as a jewelry designer and had opened a small shop down the street from her loft, locating her little store close to big hitters.
Drakon immediately flew to New York to see her, going straight from the airport to her boutique, hoping that’s where he’d find her at 11:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. Before he even stepped from his limousine, she walked out the shop’s front door with her youngest sister, Jemma. At first glance they looked like any glamorous girls about town, slim and chic, with long gleaming hair and their skin lightly golden from expensive spray-on tans, but after that first impression of beauty and glamour, he saw how extremely thin Morgan was, dangerously thin. She looked like a skeleton in her silk tunic and low-waisted trousers. Wide gold bangles covered her forearms, and Drakon wondered if it was an attempt to hide her extreme slenderness, or perhaps accent her physique?
He didn’t know, wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The only thing he knew for certain was that she didn’t look well and he was baffled by the change in her.
He let her go, leaving her with Jemma, and had his driver take him to her father’s building on 53rd and Third Avenue. Daniel Copeland could barely hide his shock at seeing Drakon Xanthis in his office, but welcomed him cordially—he was, after all, taking care of Drakon’s investment—and asked him to have a seat.
“I saw Morgan today,” Drakon had said bluntly, choosing not to sit. “What’s wrong with her? She doesn’t look well.”
“She hasn’t been well,” Daniel answered just as bluntly.
“So what’s wrong with her?” he repeated.
“That’s her business.”
“She’s my wife.”
“Only because you won’t let her go.”
“I don’t believe in divorce.”
“She’s not happy with you, Drakon. You need to let her go.”
“Then she needs to come tell me that herself.” He’d left Daniel’s office after that, and for several weeks he’d expected a call from Morgan, expected an email, something to say she was ready to meet with him.
But she didn’t contact him. And he didn’t reach out to her. And the impasse had continued until three days ago when Morgan had called him, and requested a meeting. She’d told him up front why she wanted to see him. She made it clear that this had nothing to do with them, or their marriage, but her need for a loan, adding that she was only coming to him because no one else would help her.
You are my last resort, she’d said. If you don’t help me, no one will.
He’d agreed to see her, telling her to meet him here, at Villa Angelica. He’d thought perhaps by meeting here, where they’d embarked on their married life, they could come to an understanding and heal the breach. Perhaps face-to-face here, where they had been happy, he could persuade Morgan to return to Athens. It was time. He wanted children, a family. He wanted his wife back where she was supposed to be—in his home, at his side.
Now he realized there was no hope, there never had been, and he felt stupid and angry.
Worse, he felt betrayed. Betrayed by the woman he’d vowed to love and protect, a woman he’d continued to love these past five years, because it was his duty to love her. To be faithful to her. To provide for her.
But he was done with his duty. Done with his loyalty. Done with her.
He wanted her gone.
It was time to give her what she wanted. Time to give them both what they needed—freedom.
Drakon ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the dense beard, a beard he’d started growing that day he’d learned she intended to end their marriage without uttering a single word, or explanation, or apology to him.
He’d vowed he’d grow his beard until his wife returned home, or until he’d understood what had happened between them.
It had been an emotional, impulsive vow, but he’d kept it. Just as he’d kept hope that one day Morgan, his wife, would return to him.
And she had returned, but only to tell him how much she hated him. How much she despised him. How degrading she’d found their marriage.
Drakon exhaled slowly, trying to control the hot rush of emotion that made his chest ache and burn. He wasn’t used to feeling such strong emotions. But he was feeling them now.
He
