Author's Note: Two chapters ago, a guest reviewer asked a slew of questions about whether or not Chuck and Blair have only a sexual thing going on. I answered on my tumblr since I was unable to do so here and then, in my haste to post the last chapter, forgot to state that I had done so. The revelation about necklace may have belayed your fears, but there are many more moments in earlier chapters I pointed out that show Chuck wants more than just a dalliance with Blair. I hope you'll check it out. Also, another guest reviewer asked if Chuck and Blair have had sex. No, the extent of how far they have gone can be seen in the prologue.
Spotted: Chuck Bass losing something no one knew he had – his heart.
She watches him for a moment, watches the way his fingers flex around the glass of amber liquid almost as though he's debating whether to partake or not. He seems almost startled when Vanya announces her, and he turns his head to watch her with a forlorn look on his face that leaves her unsure. The butler is dismissed with a flick of his wrist, leaving them alone to watch and wait for the other to speak.
She hesitates because she doesn't know what to say, because her mouth feels dry and cottony and she's choking on the question marks. Her fingers rise to trace the medallion lying against the skin of her chest, rise to trace just as his fingers trace the rim of his glass.
"This was your mother's."
She expects him to be surprised that she knows, and maybe he actually is. His face is unreadable – partially obscured by the shadows – and if she could get closer, if she could just look into his eyes, then maybe she would know the truth.
"Yes."
Her eyes close at his reply, close as the weight of the significance tightens its grip around her. Her memories of Evelyn Bass are hazy at best, and she wonders if is the woman with his eyes and his laugh are merely a figment of her imagination. The memory of Evelyn's funeral, of sitting in the pew next to Chuck and holding his hand because it felt like the right thing to do is sharper. She still had her childhood innocence, couldn't understand the pain Chuck was going through after losing his only affectionate and loving parent.
When she died, when he lost the woman he adored, Chuck morphed into something composed of sharp angles and hardness, of alcohol and exotic temptations brought back from the Orient. His father followed down the same path, turned the home he built and named Evelyn's Palace after his wife into something unrecognizable.
Into this place of darkness devoid of the warmth and affection his wife – the one that followed him from the countryside yet still managed to capture the adoration of the upper echelon of society – had been known for. Into just the Palace; into a place with a nearly treasonable name that only survived because of the entertainment it offered the monarch.
"Why did you give this to me?"
She needs the truth, needs his words and not the ones currently ringing in her head. If Nate is right, if Chuck gave her this necklace for any other reason than trying to entice her into bed, she needs to know.
Because his reputation precedes him. Because half the girls she made her debut with fell for his charms and fell into his bed at the risk to their reputations and prospects. Only hushed up scandals and hasty alliances had saved them. And she had been saved in the same manner – a hasty marriage to Louis and a relocation to France before the scandal could leak.
Or so she had thought, so she had believed until now because the only one who saved her was Chuck. No one knew of her dalliance, and the one person who did kept it a secret from even his best friend for five years.
"Nate said it's because you lo—"
"And what happens if I say it?"
Her eyebrows knit in confusion, and the whole room seems to be cloak in the dark tone echoing in his voice. And she wonders how and when he managed to move across the room without her noticing because all of the sudden his glass is abandoned across the room and he's standing in front of her. His hand reaches out to touch her jaw, to cup her cheek so she has no choice but to look at him.
"If I say three words, eight letters, would you stay?"
It takes her just a moment to realize what he is referring to, to realize the correct combination of three words and eight letters. And the realization sends a jolt through her because it's been five years – closer to six – since her father's funeral and Nate's betrayal and her mother's remarriage, since she accepted a ride in his carriage and kissed him just because she wanted to. Because she wanted to feel alive. Because she wanted to know what it feels like to be wanted.
And all this time, he's just been here. And the idea seems ludicrous because he's Chuck Bass. Because casting him as a villain is far easier than trying to see past his defenses, peel back the layers, and understand all his complexities.
His fingers trace her jaw in temptation, pulling her back to the here and the now. All the questions swim in her mind, fight for dominance as she pieces together that which she knows.
"It's been five years, Chuck" she breathes out quickly, focusing on understanding rather than answering his question. "Why—"
"Because in the face of true love, you don't give up," he replies softly as his fingers trace and stroke and caress. Her breath catches her in throat, and her eyes lock with his to see another layer peel back. "Even if the object of your affection is begging you to."
He waits through the pause, waits as the words register within her heart before acting and thus he is caught off guard when she moves forward, closes the distance between them, and kisses him. His lips curve beneath hers softly for just a moment before firming, before taking control. His arms close around her, drag her closer as his tongue fills her mouth. She lifts her hands to touch the nape of his neck, to cup his check and stroke gently.
As their mouths merge, as the fire rekindles between them, she burns with the knowledge of all that they can share. His hunger is there – real and potent and no longer disguised behind innuendos and misunderstandings. And it is all hers for the taking should she ever stop denying that this is where she wants, where she needs to be.
She meets him, taunts and duels him as she presses herself closer and encourages him to tighten his arms about her. His hand moves on her back then slides lower over the indentation of her waist to her hips to the swell of her bottom. She greedily grasps at every kiss, at every sensation and tries to evoke more, more, more.
Chuck reads her eagerness, sighs in relief that she finally understands him and his needs and his wants. He reaches for her hips, draws her even closer towards him before greedily taking her mouth again. He raises his hands, runs them down her back until his fingers find the lace of her gown and loosen them easily.
He slides his hands around to close about her breasts, and she shudders and moans against his mouth. Her hands greedily, hungrily grasp at his hair, his shoulders, and her nails dig into his skin even through the thickness of his shirt and coat.
His fingers ease aside the fine fabric of her bodice to reach within, to cup her breast through the think silk of her chemise. Her breath hitches, and he pauses against her lips, waits for her to tell him to stop. But when no words come, when no objections pass through her lips, he reaches for the ribbon bows securing her chemise, tugs until they unravel. He boldly draws the thin layer of fabric down and sets his palm to her breast, sets his skin to her naked flesh.
Reverently cupping her breast in his hand, he draws back his head, breaks the kiss, and looks down. Still as perfect as he remembers. He smiles at the thought, at the memory as she closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath. And then his lips touch just the top of her skin, his breath becomes warm against her heated skin, and her fingers tighten involuntarily against his shoulders.
"Chuck," she whimpers. He bends his head to her other breast, lavishes it with the same amount of attention.
"I want you," he replies as his lips press against her skin
His words need no more embellishment; the truth rings in her ears, strums through her body, and lays against her collarbone. Her heart pounds under her skin, urges her to take from him, and yet something inside her screams for her to draw back, to resist and say no. He seems to sense her decision even before she makes it, speaks quickly and urgently and almost desperately as he tries to silence the part of her insisting she deny him.
"We can be married whenever you want," he promises. "But for God's sake, Blair, don't—"
His words crash over her with an icy wave that drowns out all desire. Panic flares within her, grips her so tightly that she jerks back out of his hold.
"What did you say?"
"You know where we've been heading," he replies as his eyes fixate on her face, on her eyes. He searches for understanding, searches even as she stiffens and hardens against him. "I want to make love with you."
"No, you want to marry me."
The correction feels more like an accusation, like a slap to the face that leaves him disoriented. He stares at her for a moment; feels his face set and his eyes narrow instinctively.
"I want – and intend – to do both. One once. The other frequently."
"Well, you can have fun playing with yourself because I don't intend to marry again," she replies as her eyes narrow. She reaches for her chemise, yanks it up until her breasts disappear again from his view. He bites his tongue, forces himself to think as she sets about retying the straps of her chemise.
He knows she's upset. He told himself to back off, told himself it would not be wise to rush her because the goal of this game is too important, too valuable to risk. But then she was pressing herself against him, offering him an opportunity to make his case, and laces are so easily loosened.
Abruptly, she turns around and presents him with her back. And suddenly the scene looks a lot like one five years ago; he can feel her slipping through his fingers once more. He grabs her lacings and yanks them up, tugs harshly as frustration and exasperation sets in.
"Just answer me this," he says as he keeps his eyes on the laces as he tightens and then ties them. "If you know about the necklace, if you know our history, then why is my mentioning marriage such a shock to you? What did you think what's been developing between us would lead to?"
And that's the problem. Because she knows the inevitability of what will occur if she goes upstairs with him tonight, if she marries him tomorrow. There would be a child, a little baby that would be half of her and half of him. Her heart aches at the thought, her arms ache at the memory, and she can't lead him to that hell. Her damnation is her own, and she will not share it with anyone, especially not with him.
"An affair?" He questions with a sardonic laugh. "Because I don't want an affair, Blair. I want to marry you."
She cannot hide her reaction to his words, to the threat with in them. She cannot hide from the instinctive, deeply ingrained panic that causes her to recoil, that causes her lungs to clamp tight as she turns and faces him.
Even through the clouding lens of anger, Chuck sees the fear deep with her eyes, sees the panic that dulls the sparkle within them. He fights the urge the grab her and reassure her, to pull her into his arms and sooth her because he doesn't understand, he doesn't know what makes the idea of marrying him so impalpable.
"I don't want to get married again. Not to you. Not to any man." The words quiver with emotion and fail to sound as, charged and resolute as she intends them to be. She dragged in a breath. "I should go. My mother – she'll worry."
She turns away from him, turns towards the door to make yet another hasty exit from this room. He calls after her, calls her name as she wrenches open the door and he moves towards her.
"No!" Blindly, she holds up a hand and bids him to stop in his relentless pursuit. "Please, just forget it. Forget all this."
"Blair, thank G—"
Cyrus' vexation increases at the look on her face, heightens as his concern for her well-being shifts from worrying over her disappearing act from the van der Bilt estate to worrying about the cause of the tearstains on her cheeks.
"What's wrong? What happened?"
"He loves me," she chokes out because it's only partly a lie. He never said those three words, eight letters, but the sentiment was there. Hangs undeniably around her neck as his proposal – his indecent proposal – rings in her ears.
"Who? Mister Bass?" Cyrus questions, and then he smiles because Chuck and Blair haven't been as secretive as they believe themselves to be. "That's wonderful."
"No, it's not. It's horrible," she replies. Her voice breaks painfully as her anguish tears at and torments her. She collapses into his embrace, collapses under the weight of her desperation and pain. "I can't – I can't say it back. I can't be a masochist. Help me."
"You don't need help," he assures her as he hugs her, as he tries to soothe away her fears. "You just need time."
They break apart for just a second before she falls back into his embrace with a whimpers exclamation that it's not enough. And he hugs her tighter, catches sight of his wife standing on the stairs and watching them.
"It'll all be okay," Cyrus promises his stepdaughter as he runs his hand up and down her back. "You'll see, dear."