Chapter 14: Leather and Rain
539 Words
*Tuesday, 11:23 PM. Kelvin’s Car. Backseat.*
He didn’t speak.
I didn’t either.
Just rain on the windows.
And his jacket on my shoulders.
Still warm. Still smelled like him. Cedar. Smoke. Power.
The driver put up the privacy glass.
Now it was just us.
I should’ve moved to the other side.
I didn’t.
Because my legs were shaking too hard.
Kelvin stared out the window. Jaw tight.
The Thames disappeared behind us.
So did the contract.
“So,” I said. Voice raw. “You lost.”
He turned. Slow.
Eyes dark. No anger.
“I lost paper.” He looked at my hands. Empty. “Not you.”
My breath caught.
“364 days is gone, Kelvin.”
“I know.” He leaned forward. Elbows on knees. 1 foot away. “You ripped it.”
“Then why did you carry me?”
“Because you were cold.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.” His eyes dropped to my lips. Then back up. “It’s the truth.”
The car hit a pothole.
I fell forward.
Into him.
My hands landed on his chest. Wet shirt. Heart beating.
He didn’t push me away.
His hands came up.
One on my back. One in my hair.
Not pulling. Just... holding.
Like I might shatter.
“Jenna.” My name on his tongue. Different now. No CEO. No contract.
Just... me.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t make this—”
“What?” His thumb brushed my wet cheek. “Real?”
The car was too hot.
Or I was.
“Rose was right.” I pulled back. Barely. “You’ll never trust me now.”
“Wrong.” He caught my wrist. Didn’t squeeze. “I trust the woman who jumped a knife for her brother.”
“Why?”
“Because she could’ve run.” His voice dropped. “She chose to stay.”
The city lights blurred past.
“I chose Michael,” I said. “Not you.”
“I know.” His thumb moved to my pulse. Fast under his touch. “And I still came.”
The silence was louder than rain.
“Where are we going?”
“Home.”
“That’s not my home anymore.”
“No.” He leaned in. 6 inches. “It’s mine. And you’re in it.”
Possession.
Without paper.
I should’ve been terrified.
Instead my fingers curled into his shirt.
“What now, Kelvin?”
He stared at my mouth.
5 seconds.
6 seconds.
The car stopped.
Gates opened.
His penthouse.
He let go.
Just like that.
“Now,” he said, opening the door. Rain hit us both. “You choose again.”
He got out.
Held his hand out.
No contract.
No order.
Just a hand.
My choice.
I stared at it.
Water dripped off my hair onto his palm.
Michael was at the gates. Watching.
Rose was gone. But not dead.
And the man who killed my dad was waiting for me to take his hand.
I did.
His fingers closed around mine.
Tight.
Not cruel.
Anchored.
He pulled me out of the car.
Into the rain.
Into his house.
Into whatever hell came next.
____
- Writer
