Chapter Thirteen — Intoxicated
643 Words
Warmth.
Soft. Comforting. Like the world had finally stopped spinning.
Naomi buried her face deeper into it, inhaling something familiar—dark spice, clean fabric, and something utterly intoxicating.
Then something shifted.
Something solid.
Naomi’s eyes snapped open.
Rhys.
She was wrapped against him.
A strong arm slung over her waist. His breath was soft against the top of her head. Their legs tangled beneath the silk sheets.
Her heart lurched into her throat.
What the hell—
She shoved at his chest. "What are you doing in my bed?"
Rhys groaned, voice rough with sleep. "You fell asleep while kissing me."
Her eyes widened.
He smirked.
Before he could say another word, she slapped her palm over his mouth.
His brows lifted, amused.
"Don’t say it," she warned, voice tight.
His lips curved against her skin.
Heat shot through her.
"Naomi." His voice was muffled under her palm, dark amusement curling around every syllable.
She felt his tongue flick against her palm.
She snatched her hand away like she’d been burned.
Rhys chuckled, stretching lazily. His shirt had ridden up slightly, revealing hard muscle and a trail of ink-black tattoos.
She swallowed hard.
"I hate you," she muttered.
"You say that," Rhys murmured, tilting her chin up. "But I seem to recall you moaning my name before you—"
She shoved him away.
His deep laughter followed her all the way to the bathroom.
---
Naomi sat in the car, arms crossed, watching the city blur past.
"A family event?" she muttered.
Rhys smirked from the driver’s seat. "Something wrong with that?"
She narrowed her eyes. This man was taking her to meet his family.
And somehow, that was more terrifying than everything else.
The car pulled up to a sprawling estate—manicured gardens, high iron gates, and enough security to rival a fortress.
Inside, the place was bustling.
Laughter, music, the clinking of glasses.
Naomi barely had time to take it in before—
"Oh my God, he brought a girl!"
A tiny force of energy slammed into Rhys, wrapping arms around him.
Rhys sighed. "Lily."
His little sister.
She peeked up at Naomi with wide, bright eyes.
"You’re really real," she whispered. "I thought he was lying."
Naomi blinked. "Why would he lie?"
Lily huffed. "Because he’s Rhys. He doesn’t do—this."
Naomi glanced at him. Even his family thought it was strange.
Lily pulled her inside before she could think too much about it.
"Everyone! Rhys brought a girl!"
A chorus of gasps. Excited chatter.
Naomi wanted to die.
One by one, they descended.
His cousins. Aunts. People she couldn’t even keep track of.
Warm greetings, teasing smiles—nothing like what she expected.
And then—
"Rhys."
The room fell silent.
An older woman stepped forward. Beautiful, elegant.
Rhys stiffened beside her.
"Step-mother," he greeted flatly.
The woman sighed. "Are we still doing this?"
Naomi bit her lip.
This woman was warm. Gentle. Nothing like Rhys.
"Who’s this?" she asked, eyes twinkling.
Rhys sighed. "Naomi."
His stepmother’s smile softened. "It’s nice to meet you, dear."
Naomi hesitated. "You too."
Rhys was tense.
Naomi’s curiosity piqued.
But before she could think too much about it—
A deep, gravelly voice cut through the room.
"Let me see her."
Naomi turned.
And her heart stopped.
Because sitting at the head of the table, dressed in black, scarred, cold, and very much alive—
Was the man who was supposed to be dead.
Rhys’s grandfather.
The famous mafia boss.
Murdered on live television.
Naomi’s blood ran cold.
This wasn’t possible.
And yet—
He was here.
Alive. Watching her with a look that peeled her apart, layer by layer.
The room held its breath.
Then—
He grinned. "I like this one."
Laughter burst out.
Rhys exhaled.
Naomi swallowed hard.
What the hell had she gotten herself into?
- Writer
