Chapter Eighteen — Code Red
916 Words
It had been two days.
Two days since Naomi left Rhys’s family home.
Two days since she had felt his warmth against her.
Two days since his voice had wrapped around her like silk, deep and low, calling her sweetheart in that infuriating way.
And yet, he was nowhere to be found.
Not a call. Not a text. Not a single word.
She told herself she didn’t care.
She told herself she wouldn’t think about him.
But here she was—thinking about him.
About his touch.
His scent.
The way his body fit so perfectly against hers.
The memory burned too hot.
And she needed to put it out.
Which was exactly why she grabbed the bottle of vodka from her kitchen and poured herself a shot.
Just one.
To ease the nerves.
To clear her head.
But one turned into two.
Two into three.
Three into—
She lost count.
The world tilted slightly, and she giggled.
God, she felt so light.
So warm.
So reckless.
Naomi twirled around in her living room, swaying, humming to a song that didn’t exist.
Rhys’s men stood awkwardly by the door, eyes wide, watching her like she was a grenade waiting to explode.
"Should we—uh—stop her?" one of them whispered.
"I don't know, man. She looks happy."
"She’s also drunk off her ass."
"Yeah, but she’s throwing a tantrum. What do we do?"
"We call Rhys. Now."
One of them pulled out his phone and quickly sent a message.
Code Red.
They all knew what that meant.
A full-blown emergency.
And sure enough—
Twenty minutes later, Rhys Kain stormed through the door.
---
Rhys Kain was not amused.
He had been in a meeting when his phone vibrated.
He ignored it at first.
Then it vibrated again.
And again.
Until he finally checked the message.
Code Red.
His heart stopped.
Had someone hurt her?
Was she in danger?
Had someone touched her?
He would f*****g kill them.
But when he rushed into the house, ready to spill blood—
He found his girl.
Drunk. Pouting. Throwing a tantrum like a spoiled little princess.
His jaw ticked.
Naomi stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, glaring at his men.
Her cheeks were flushed.
Her lips were pouty and swollen from where she had probably been biting them.
And she was wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and tiny shorts.
Rhys’s patience snapped.
"What the f**k is going on?"
Naomi’s head whipped around.
Her eyes widened when she saw him.
Then—"Rhysssss!"
Before he could react, she launched herself at him.
His arms instinctively caught her.
And suddenly, she was pressed against him, her scent filling his lungs, her soft curves molding against his hard body.
Jesus. f**k.
She smelled like vanilla and vodka.
And she was so f*****g warm.
He stiffened.
Naomi pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes glassy and wild.
"Where have you been?" she whined.
Rhys clenched his jaw. "Busy."
"Bullshit." She poked his chest—hard. "You left me alone."
Rhys inhaled slowly.
His patience was dangling by a thread.
"You were safe," he said evenly.
"I don’t care about being safe," she snapped.
And then, her voice lowered.
"I wanted you."
Rhys went still.
Naomi’s fingers curled around his collar, pulling him closer.
His breath hitched.
She was so close.
Too f*****g close.
Her gaze dropped to his lips.
She leaned in—
Rhys grabbed her wrists.
"Stop."
Naomi blinked, confused.
Rhys's grip tightened.
"You’re drunk, Naomi."
Her brows furrowed.
"So?"
"So, I’m not touching you like this."
A beat of silence.
Then—her bottom lip trembled.
"You don’t want me, do you?" she whispered.
Rhys froze.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
"Naomi." His voice was strained. "That’s not—"
"You don’t," she choked out, tears pooling in her eyes. "You don’t want me."
And then she started crying.
Like a f*****g kid.
Rhys panicked.
His hands flew to her face, cupping her cheeks.
"Hey. No. Stop."
Naomi sniffled, shoving at his chest. "You’re lying."
"Jesus Christ." Rhys dragged a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
"You think I don’t want you?" he said, voice dangerously low.
Naomi nodded, still pouting.
Rhys laughed.
A dark, humorless laugh.
And then, his fingers tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, voice like smoke and sin.
"If I touch you the way I want to, you won’t be able to walk for days."
Naomi’s breath hitched.
Her eyes went wide.
Rhys smirked.
But then, his voice softened.
"But I won’t take advantage of you."
His thumb traced her lower lip.
"Because I am a man of my honor."
Naomi’s chest rose and fell rapidly.
For a moment, she just stared at him.
And then, she hiccupped.
Rhys sighed.
"Come on, sweetheart," he muttered, picking her up effortlessly.
She whined in protest, kicking her feet. "Put me down!"
"No."
"You’re mean."
Rhys chuckled. "I know."
He carried her to her room, laying her on the bed.
Then, he pulled the blankets over her, tucking her in.
Naomi blinked up at him, suddenly drowsy.
Her hand reached out, grabbing his sleeve.
"Stay," she murmured.
Rhys exhaled slowly.
Then—"Okay."
And as Naomi drifted off, the last thing she felt was his fingers stroking her hair.
The last thing she heard was his voice, whispering—
"Sleep, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere."
- Writer
