Ceaseless Chains Copyright © 2021 by Marzy Opal (xXMopelXx) All Rights Reserved.

Chapter posted - August 21, 2021

Hi Queens! I'm so excited to announce that the pre-order link for TRAPPED WITH YOU is finally live on Amazon!! Thank you to all the lovely readers who've already pre-ordered an e-book copy, ahh!! The paperback will come closer to release week. I feel like I'm floating on cloud nine. One step closer to my dream, thanks to all of you <3 You can use my linktr.ee to take you there:

https://linktr.ee/marzyopal

You can use the Kindle App store to make the purchase or use the Amazon website <3 I also added a new part to the OG TWAABA on wattpad with the blurb, the placeholder cover and goodreads information, as well as my thoughts on this story releasing! xo 

As always, happy reading my loves. This story is getting steamierrrrrr. Remember to press the STAR button to Vote <3

Playlist: Rihanna - Kiss It Better

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The longish hair, the throat grab, all of it is giving me Oli and Tee vibes ^^ 

C H A P T E R   18

Teagan

For the most part, Wyatt was a gentleman.

He came to pick me up in a gorgeous, cherry red vintage convertible—a ride passed on from his grandfather—and dressed formally in chinos and a black blazer that only highlighted his football player build.

He ordered steak, sans the alcohol, while I stuck to a pasta dish with Aperol Spritz to calm my nerves and help me get through this date without thinking of Oliver fucking Ashford.

The alcohol didn't help. Every time I smiled at one of Wyatt's anecdotes or raised the fork to my mouth for a bite, my lips tingled. I could still feel the ghost of Oli's lips mashed against mine in that bruising, soul-searing kiss.

I barely resisted the urge to raise my fingers to my lips to feel him lingering there. Kissing an eighteen-year-old Oli all those years was nothing compared to now. Back then he'd been a boy. Now he was grown and he knew how to use that mouth and those hands. My ass cheek still throbbed from that swat he'd given me earlier. He was bold and daunting. He acted as if he knew what I liked inside the bedroom—how I liked to be roughed and do the roughing—and it unsettled yet excited me.

He hadn't even flinched when I scored his cheek with my nails and bitten his jaw. In fact, he basked in the attention, loving it. Laughing darkly. Taunting me for more.

I was in trouble.

"Teagan?" Wyatt called out to me softly.

Oh, crap. I forgot about Wyatt. Guilt assailed me.

"Hmm?" I said around the lip of my glass, before taking a sip.

Suddenly, my eyes fell upon a table to our far left, housing a bunch of corporate and fancily dressed couples. My stomach churned, and I forced myself to look back at Wyatt's hopeful face.

"You seem distracted," he mused in a breezy manner, but even I saw the questioning glint in his eyes as he ran a nervous hand over his corn rows.

I felt like a bitch. Wyatt had been nothing but a sweetheart, bringing me to this expensive restaurant to dine so we could share a few laughs and get to know each other better. And here I was, thinking of Oliver and the crowded table to our left—the same kind of crowd my parents belonged to.

"Sorry." I smiled sheepishly. "I thought I saw someone I recognized."

I wasn't completely lying. My heart starting banging against my ribcage when I thought I saw Blake MacCabe's father. Because if he was here then maybe...

No. Don't think of them.

"Oh." His eyebrows knitted together. "Really?"

I chuckled nervously, taking a bite of my pesto pasta. "Yeah, it's kind of my parents' crowd."

"Shit." Wyatt scratched his bearded jaw. "I remember you telling me you guys don't exactly talk or get along."

"Yeah..." I grinned. "Anyways, I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

For the next moments I tried to follow every one of Wyatt's sentences while I finished my meal, trying not to get distracted by other pressing thoughts. He was a good conversationalist and the closer our evening came to an end, the more I realized, with a slight depressive hint, that I wasn't ready for whatever Wyatt was looking for. I couldn't be the girl to give it to him—literally and figuratively.

He went to pay the bill, even though I insisted on halving it because this was the twenty first century. He said the next one was on me with a wink.

While he paid, I went to the restroom to freshen up.

La Flame's ladies room had tall ceilings with sapphire blue painted walls, dark oak wood stalls and gold swan-shaped faucets. I washed my hands meticulously, buying time, and staring at myself in the mirror. Not a strand of hair was out of place from my curls. My re-applied lipstick after the kiss was still intact. But my eyes? They were weighed down by exhaustion, mentally and emotionally, from the rollercoaster that's been my life for the last four years.

I pasted on a smile and blinked my eyes wide for the sake of the sweet guy who was waiting for me outside. The same one who'd take me home and probably want to conclude our evening with a kiss.

A part of me wanted to kiss him to forget Oliver. Another part of me—the masochistic one—didn't so it could remember the feel of Himeros's passionate mouth against mine as it claimed the throne for best kiss bestowed in my fucking life.

I was about to leave when the toilet flushed and a woman stepped out, directly behind me. I caught her reflection in the mirror and my stomach sank before the blood rushing through my veins turned to ice.

My body hardened until I turned to stone.

My mother hadn't aged well in the last four years.

Zaina Parvana Manning stopped bloody breathing when her eyes, now highlighted with the beginning of crows' feet, raised to my reflection. Our gazes clashed like two turbulent waves. My heart beat once more, coating my insides with the first licks of the renewed flame burning at seeing her for the first time in forever.

From the outside, she was shining perfection, still the middle eastern ex-model who'd stolen my father's heart in the 90s during one of her runways in London. If Yasmeen Ghauri had a twin, she'd look like my mother. The only difference now was her face bore the marks of her true age. Never one for plastic surgery, she owned every flaw and wrinkle like an acquired trophy.

A modest, scoop neck burgundy number was poured over her modeslesque frame with matching pumps. Her ears and neck were adorned with diamonds that my father loved to shower her with because it showed to the world that she was his, that he loved her, that he had money, power, influence, and the perfect cookie-cutter family to go with the package.

And anyone who didn't fit his ideal be damned.

Including me. I didn't fit his ideal. Because unlike my mom, I wasn't a submissive fool in love wearing rose tinted glasses. I was, according to him, a leg spreading frivolous whore of a daughter who no longer fit the so-called perfection that was his life.

I loved the double standard in our world. It takes two to tango and Blake MacCabe had also, as I recalled from our sexual encounters, participated heartily. Why did he leave our relationship unscathed? Why didn't his parents disown him for screwing me—the young daughter of their business partner? Because he was a man and seen as more valuable in the eyes of the rich world we lived in? Why was it that I bore the consequences of our actions? Cut off from the family fortune, and kicked out of the family period for being a girl who'd given in to her raging hormones at eighteen.

Fuck my dad. Fuck Charles Arthur Emory Manning the motherfucking IV for deeming that I didn't fit his vision. It was warped any fucking way.

Hence why I had to be discarded all those years ago. Disowned. Like I wasn't his seed, his flesh, his blood.

And my mother? She wasn't a bad person, but she wasn't a good one either because she stood at the sidelines, stony faced, while I'd packed my luggage and bounced out of their lives forever.

Until now.

My mother's clutch fell to the ground, her expensive belongings rolling out.

She didn't bend down to pick it up and I didn't help either. Instead, I turned around, breaking eye contact in the mirror for two seconds, and giving her the full force of my stare now that I looked at her face-to-face.

The only sign she gave of being alive was her throat coasting up and down. The rest of her was frozen like she saw an apparition.

I waited for her to say something. Even simply say my name.

But nothing.

Her mouth parted like the words were already formed on her tongue and all she needed was the breath she held in her lungs to push those words out.

The shock plastered on her face slowly morphed to practice disinterest and I knew I'd lost her.

Who am I kidding? I lost her nearly half a decade ago.

This was simply a lesson that sometimes as people grew old, they didn't grow wiser. My mother was the perfect portrayal of that. Still the submissive wife. Still walking around with a fake smile and an imaginary glamorous gag slapped on her mouth by my father.

I used to wonder how she let me flee to Boston after high school without so much as a text message in all these years. Didn't she love me? Didn't her heart ache for me? I was the perfect mixture of her and my father. I had her height, yet my build was every bit the Manning woman's. I had her black hair, her skin tone, her dark eyes, but my pouty mouth and jaw line was all my dad. Wasn't I the embodiment—the living proof— of the love Charles and Zaina had for each other?

When I was a kid watching my father genuinely love and dot on my mother, I wanted that kind of love. Until I realized the only person Charles loved was himself and Zaina. Mina and I were only spared what little he had left.

I gave my mother one more chance, two more seconds to speak up and acknowledge me. Say hello, mom. Ask me what I'm doing here. Tell me I look grown. Say you missed me...

Underneath her stone exterior, it's as if her true self—the one she kept locked up—vibrated with energy, with the need to utter something to her daughter.

But her barriers were iron-clad.

And years ago, I ran out of rocks to break down the walls of people who simply didn't care about me anymore. People who didn't deserve the privilege of my presence.

Like a petulant child, I kicked the golden lipstick tube spilling out from her clutch with my Louboutin heels. It spun and skid, going back into the bathroom stall she'd previously exited.

Silently, my eyes met her blank ones to let her know she'd chinked my armour. The same one she helped me put on as a little girl to survive our vicious world and its judgemental echoes.

She flinched.

I whirled around and stepped out of the ladies room.

But not before I caught her shoulders sagging and misery bleeding into her eyes.

* * *

Wyatt killed the ignition when we got to my parking lot. He turned towards me with a beaming smile. I returned it, but it wasn't as bright as his.

Would we part here? Or would he walk me to the door? Or, shit, would he ask me to invite him in?

I didn't know if Oli had returned from his date with Lucia already. Walking in with Wyatt would be awkward. If Oli were still out on his date and returned while Wyatt and I were inside, it would still be awkward. There was no way around this.

And if I was being entirely honest, I didn't want to lead Wyatt on for no reason when I already knew that our ship had sunk. While he was funny and nice, this evening made me realize I wasn't ready for any of this. I couldn't give this guy a relationship. I was still mending from my past, and he had no business getting involved with me when I couldn't give him my all.

Especially when another indulgent prince spent too much time running laps in my mind.

"Thank you for tonight," I whispered to Wyatt. "I had a really great time."

"Me, too," he admitted, surprising me since I'd been a horrible date. "I would like to take you out again."

I bit my lip. "Wyatt, my schedule is very hectic and maybe we..."

My sentence trailed off when I noticed Wyatt licking his lips. He looked down at mine, leaned forward to cup my cheek, and I sputtered out a sound of distress. I pressed my fingers to his lips, right as they almost met mine.

"Wyatt," I said, shell-shocked.

He swallowed and backed away two inches. "Did I read this all wrong...?"

"I'm sorry," I said in the same tone, shaking my head. "I can't..."

He leaned away completely, embarrassed and trying to mask it. "We had a good evening and I just thought..."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's not you; it's me." How did I diffuse this situation without making it any cringier?

Wyatt barked out a short, humourless laugh, his eyes going to the windshield. The rain came down harder. "This whole time you've been distracted, and I couldn't figure out what it was."

My throat tightened.

"It's not just your parents," he stated.

I blinked, waiting for it.

"It's him—Oliver." Wyatt nodded towards my building. "That's what's holding you back, isn't it? You're living with him. You must feel something for him."

I closed my eyes and bumped my temple against the headrest. "Wyatt..."

"I saw the way he looked at you during your performance at the speakeasy. The fucker couldn't look away from us when you were talking to me. His eyes kept following you with this, fuck, hungry look? Even when I went to ask him if it was okay to make a pass at you, he downplayed it, but I saw his annoyance."

Couldn't look away. Hungry look. Annoyance.

But I didn't like that he called Oliver 'the fucker'. Wyatt was out of line. He lived with Trent and Jared and he knew Oliver was their best friend, their brother. He could have worded that better, even if he were unhappy right now.

"He's my best friend, Wyatt," I murmured. And I can't kiss you because my mind and lips are rooted on Oliver.

"But he wants you and you want him." The sweet, jesting guy I spent the whole evening with evaporated, replaced by this somber, monotone one.

He wants you. You want him.

Wyatt wasn't entirely wrong.

That kiss had tilted my axis and Oliver Abhay Ashford was all I could think about.

"I'm so sorry, Wyatt. Truly. I did have a good time with you. I like you and you make me laugh and you're so sweet and—"

"–But I'm not him. I'm not the one you want," he finished eerily. "And honestly? I'm not down to be played with. I think you're cool and super hot, but I don't want to date you while you're hung up on some other guy."

I didn't know how to formulate my thoughts into words because it was obvious he was hurt. My fault for going out with him when I felt the way I did for Oli. Did I like Wyatt summing me up as cool and super hot when actually I had better qualities that defined me, such as smart, loyal, nurturing, caring and so on? Was I going to call him out on his bullshit, saying is that all boys saw us as? Not really worth it. I sensed he needed to lick his wounds in private and I wasn't going to throw unnecessary fuel to the fire. So I took an L and gave him a shaky smile.

"Thank you for taking me out tonight, Wyatt. Maybe one day we can hang out, meet up for coffee and just chill?" It definitely wasn't going to happen, and I'd apologize to Trent and Jared later for things going south with their roommate because I didn't want him. I wanted Oliver. Sans mentioning the Oliver part because you know, yikes.

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever." He started the car again, signalling to me to get the fuck out. "Have a good night, Teagan."

"You, too." I stepped out and slammed his door harder than needed, vintage car be damned. Cool and super hot my fucking Iranian and European ass.

I didn't watch as he zoomed out of my parking lot.

* * *

It was a little past 11 pm when I came home. My heels clacked loudly as I went about pouring myself a glass of red wine and downing it like I had a personal vendetta against Cabernet Sauvignon. Then I poured myself another glass and sipped it more lightly as I searched through the fridge for dessert.

Oli had finished the cake I brought home two nights ago from Le Petit Moulin, so I settled on his peace offering. Strawberries and white chocolate truffle, which he kept stocked for me at all times. To compensate, I'd run two extra kilometers and add an extra set of sit ups to my workout tomorrow morning.

I melted the chocolate and cut up the berries, my eyes stuck to the entrance door. Should I text Oli that I was home and that my date was a fucking disaster and I needed my best friend so I could vent? That I saw my mother for the first time in four years and I was completely crushed at her lack of warmth?

No, I couldn't do that. Especially if he was actually enjoying his time with fucking Lucia. I wondered what she looked like...

Then I noticed his oxford shoes pristinely lined by the doorway and realized that Oliver was already home. Why were all the lights turned off then? He knew I wasn't home yet.

My heart started pounding.

Should I go to his door and knock?

I chided myself against it. Maybe he was already asleep. He had an early morning tomorrow and I doubt he wanted to rehash our dates. Especially if his went well, I wouldn't be responsible for my actions.

He wants you. You want him.

Like a sulking kid, I finished my strawberries and chocolate and downed my wine, relishing the slight buzz thrumming through me. I went to my bedroom quietly and stripped my clothes. Instead of donning a long night gown, I put on a short plum-colored satin slip with matching panties. I wanted to feel sexy tonight for a change because I was too revved up on emotions, and I would need to lie down and love myself to orgasm. Anything to get this edge off and help me sleep better. Shit, I might even break out the vibrator Tara gifted me.

I tiptoed into the bathroom and washed my face, my gold bangles jingling as I cleansed, exfoliated, and moisturized my face. I gathered my waist-length curls into a topknot and turned around to saunter back into my room, when I heard a rough, male groan that had me stiffening in my steps.

I heard it again and my heart raced even faster than before.

I shut the lights but didn't step out of the bathroom. Over my shoulder, I caught the other door leading to Oli's room slightly ajar. Why didn't he lock it if he was sleeping?

Something compelled me to walk closer to inspect the sliver of light cascading into the dark bathroom like a beacon of light at the end of a tunnel. Holding my breath, I peered through the crack, feeling like a trespasser witnessing a sight that didn't belong to me.

I wished I hadn't.

Curtains drawn back, moonlight spilled recklessly into Oliver's room, casting a decadent glow on his naked body. His powerful legs were spread wide, bulging muscles on sheer display, and he leaned back on one elbow. The right tattooed hand was wrapped around the long, thick ridge that was his dick, his glorious cockhead poking through his fist with each jerk. Oliver's eyes were half-mast, his hair open and wild, his features contorted in masculine pleasure as he dropped low grunts from his lips.

My throat tightened, saliva pooled in my mouth and my nipples beaded painfully.

The sight was ethereal. Like my Himeros—truly the live portrayal of uncontrollable desire—had been immortalized in this moment like an artwork from the renaissance time period and I was a time traveller, allowed to glimpse his splendor in the making.

I must have breathed too harshly and interrupted the artist stroking this paintwork to life, because suddenly Oliver's citrine orbs were on me, skating over my silhouette. He raked his teeth over his bottom lip to stop the groan climbing his throat.

Ever since the first time Oliver kissed me, a slow burning fire had ignited in the pit of my stomach. Over the years, it simmered down to a barely existing flame. Yet now that same fire roared and heated my blood. It pumped through my veins like an awakening drug.

I felt ensnared, utterly chained to him right now. A voyeur caught entangled in a sacred moment that wasn't hers, a lonely fairy watching her favorite God love himself, feeling beckoned to enter his temple and join his erotic festivities.

I had to remind myself that Himeros was also the god of unrequited love. The personification of longing love. If I weren't careful, the raging inferno wouldn't only heat my blood with lust, but it would burn me as well.

Oliver choked his fat cock faster, staring at me with unblanketed desire. The flesh between my legs throbbed with unrestrained need. "Are you going to keep watching me, or are you going to come do something about it, little darling?"

Little darling.

He hadn't called me that in years.

The term of endearment sent my emotions spiralling.

I swayed a little, my vision blurring and the white noise in my ears rushing loudly like flapping wings, until I stepped into his room for the first time like a sacrificial lamb.

Our game reached an inevitable height. 

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A/N: That cliffhangerrrrr, I am not sorry ahaha. What did you think of Teagan and Wyatt's date? Teagan seeing her mom for the first time in years? Teagan catching Oli in the act...I cannot wait to hear your thoughts on the next chapter. Promise me you're going to comment all your reactions on the smut!! If I don't update next weekend, I'll keep you posted. Work and preparing TWY for publishing has been very hectic. xo

Chapter goal: 700 votes? xo

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Thank you for everything. This still feels so surreal to me. I'm still processing it!!

Love,

Marzy