Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 166

Chapter 166

Elara

Of course I remembered. I’d done it countless times in my previous

life, my fingers learning the exact pressure points, the specific

movements that would ease his pain. My hands knew the routine even

if my heart rebelled against it.

“I remember,” I said quietly.

For a long moment, he just looked at me. Then: “Come here.”

The command in his voice was unmistakable, layered with that same

authority he used in boardrooms and family meetings. Every rational

part of my brain screamed at me to refuse, to maintain the distance

between us, to remember that nothing good came from getting too

close to Julian Vane.

But I was already moving, my feet carrying me across the room before I could override the impulse. I stopped beside his chair, close enough to see the fine tremor in his hands, the tight lines of pain bracketing

his mouth.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing weakly to the ottoman.

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I lowered myself onto it, bringing us eye to eye. This close, I could see

every detail–the flecks of gold in his dark irises, the shadow of

stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils were slightly dilated with

pain. The firelight played across his features, softening the harsh

angles into something almost vulnerable.

“You remember what to do?” he asked, his voice rough.

I nodded. My hands knew the routine even if my heart protested. The specific pressure points at his temples, the gentle circles at the base of his skull, the way to coax his muscles into releasing their death

grip.

“Then help me,” he said quietly. And then, so softly I almost didn’t

hear it: “Please.”

The please broke something in me. Julian Vane commanded,

demanded, took what he wanted without asking permission. But here, in the darkness of this room with pain splitting his skull and his

engagement party waiting outside, he was asking.

I shifted position, moving to stand behind his chair. My fingers found his temples, and I began the familiar routine–gentle pressure in small circles, gradually increasing as I felt the tension in his muscles. He made a sound low in his throat, something between relief and

pain, and let his head fall back.

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We stayed like that for several minutes, the only sounds the crackling

of the fire and Julian’s gradually evening breathing. My fingers moved of their own accord, tracing patterns I’d memorized years ago, finding

the knots of tension in his neck and shoulders. It was intimate in a

way that had nothing to do with sex–this quiet care, this knowledge

of his body’s needs, this unspoken trust that I wouldn’t hurt him

while he was vulnerable.

“That’s better,” he murmured after a while. “Still works. You always

could make them go away.”

I didn’t respond. What could I say? That I’d spent hours learning this

because I’d wanted to be useful to him? That I’d practiced until my

own hands cramped because his comfort had mattered more than my

own? All of it felt pathetic now, evidence of how thoroughly I’d

subjugated myself to his needs.

My hands moved lower, working the tight muscles at the base of his

skull. Julian’s breathing had deepened, his body relaxing under my

touch in a way that made my chest ache. This was the Julian I’d fallen

for–the one who let his guard down, who showed vulnerability, who

seemed to need me.

But that Julian had never really existed, had he? He was a fantasy I’d

constructed from moments like these, carefully curated instances of

intimacy that I’d mistaken for love.

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“Elara.” His hand came up suddenly, catching my wrist mid–motion.

The grip was gentle but firm, stopping my movements. “Stop.”

I froze, confused. “Does it hurt? Am I pressing too hard?”

“No.” He pulled gently on my wrist, drawing me forward. “Just–stop

for a second.”

I lost my balance, stumbling forward as he pulled. My hands flew out

to catch myself, landing on his shoulders. And then somehow I was

bent over him, my body pressed against his back, his hand still

wrapped around my wrist.

“Elara.” He said my name like a prayer, like a curse. “Last night… it

wasn’t a mistake. I meant what I said. All of it.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. I could feel the warmth of his

skin through his shirt, could smell his cologne mixing with whiskey

and wood smoke. The memories of last night crashed over me–his

hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the way he’d looked at me like

I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Julian, let me go-”

“I can’t.” His voice was rough, almost desperate. “I can’t let you go.

Don’t you understand that? I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. But I can’t

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Footsteps in the hallway again. Lighter this time, accompanied by the

soft clink of china.

“Mr. Julian Vane?” A woman’s voice–Lucy, probably, with the

headache remedy. “Mr. Vane asked me to bring you this.”

I jerked back, stumbling away from Julian’s chair. My face burned with

humiliation and something darker, something I didn’t want to name.

What was I doing? What were we doing?

Julian’s hand fell away from my wrist. He looked stunned, almost

stricken, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Just-” His voice was hoarse. “Just leave it outside the door, Lucy.

Thank you.”

“Of course, sir.”

The sound of a tray being set down, then retreating footsteps. But I

was already backing toward the door, my hands shaking, my vision

blurring with unshed tears.

I was nothing. That’s what this proved. I was nothing but a convenient outlet for his stress, someone to massage away his

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