You Had Me, You Lost Me, You'll Never Find Me novel Chapter 35

Every memory of their sweet entanglements, every moment of their skin pressed together, suddenly felt like a massive lie. It felt as though Sylvia, that wicked little siren, had set a trap, watched him fall headfirst into it, and was now happily burying him alive.

Despite the blinding fury raging inside him, Ashton didn't step forward. He stood frozen under the corridor awning, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, watching the two of them intimately pick flowers together.

His blood boiled like molten lava, yet his posture remained impeccably straight and ice-cold.

After a long, agonizing moment, he turned away with a frigid, mocking smirk. If he watched for one more second, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself from beating the man to a pulp.

—

Out of the corner of her eye, Sylvia caught a glimpse of the man's retreating figure, and a faint sigh of relief washed over her.

She hadn't been oblivious to the intense, burning glare trying to bore a hole through her just moments ago. She had just pretended not to notice.

Now that Ashton was gone, there was no need to keep up the act. Sylvia dropped her hand from Julian's arm and took a step back. "Thanks for that."

Julian's gaze lingered on her retreating hand. "Don't mention it."

Sylvia now had a golden Kerria flower tucked behind her ear. The flower was beautiful, but she was even more radiant. Julian's lips curved into a faint smile. With his thin gold-rimmed glasses, he radiated an undeniable, polished charm.

"You called me sweetheart, so I didn't lose out."

Sylvia's ears instantly flushed bright red from embarrassment. Was he flirting with her?

Thankfully, the butler appeared exactly at that moment to save her.

"Elder Wyatt would like to speak with you, Miss Harlow."

Sylvia looked as though she had just been granted a presidential pardon. She nodded quickly. "I understand. I'll head right up."

—

The butler led her to the second floor, stopping in front of a heavy door. "Elder Wyatt is right inside."

Sylvia didn't overthink it. She had come here specifically to visit the old man, after all.

Ashton's kisses trailed down her cheek, finally claiming her lips with a demanding, greedy intensity. Sylvia tasted the faint, sweet bitterness of alcohol on his tongue. She wrenched her head to the side. "Ashton, calm down."

"I can't calm down. Why were you acting so sweet with him?"

His voice was a frigid whisper, yet his breath was scalding hot. "You called him sweetheart. You've never called me sweetheart."

He sounded as deeply wronged as a child throwing a jealous tantrum.

A violent, untamed urge surged within him, clashing fiercely with his strained self-control. A flicker of agonizing heartbreak seeped into his eyes as his kisses grew rougher and more punishing, as if he wanted to consume her entirely.

Sylvia's breathing fractured, rendering her completely unable to speak. She let out a muffled sound of protest, struggling against him.

But Ashton merely wrapped his arm around her waist, effortlessly lifting her off her feet. Kissing her relentlessly, he carried her to the massive bed, pinning her down with a predatory dominance as he ravaged her lips.

Panic flared in Sylvia's chest as she realized Ashton was completely losing control.

She was genuinely terrified he was going to take her right then and there.