Chapter Sixteen — Thunderstorms
1033 Words
Naomi stirred awake to the feeling of warmth.
A firm chest. A steady heartbeat beneath her cheek. A comforting heat wrapped around her body, making her feel… safe.
Her fingers twitched against the fabric beneath them.
Rhys.
She was in his arms again.
Naomi blinked, still groggy from sleep. She was getting used to this now, to waking up against his warmth. And that realization hit her harder than she liked.
She should move.
She had to.
Her heart was beating too fast.
Slowly, she shifted—only for his arms to tighten around her waist, pulling her back in.
A low, sleepy groan rumbled against her ear.
"It’s too early," Rhys muttered, voice husky from sleep. "Sleep a little more."
Naomi’s breath caught.
His raspy voice.
The way his lips were so close to her temple.
Her stomach twisted.
She tilted her head back, only to meet a pair of sleep-heavy, half-lidded eyes.
His eyes.
They were dark. Dazed. Unreadable.
Her breath hitched.
His gaze dropped—to her lips.
And suddenly, there was too much heat.
Too much tension.
He had one arm locked around her waist, keeping her flush against him. His other hand lifted slowly, brushing a loose strand of her hair away from her face.
His fingers lingered.
She felt every touch.
Every single graze of his fingertips.
"Can I ask you something, Naomi?" he murmured, his voice softer than usual.
Naomi swallowed, blinking away the haze in her mind.
"Umm, Mr. Kain got some manners today," she said, forcing her voice to be sarcastic despite the way her heart was racing. "That’s new."
Rhys huffed a quiet chuckle.
But there was something… off about the way he looked at her.
Something serious.
"Do you hate thunderstorms?" he asked.
Naomi’s entire body went still.
Her fingers curled into the sheets.
Her lips parted—but nothing came out.
Her throat was dry.
The warmth of the moment vanished.
Why?
She forced herself to breathe. To act normal.
"Why are you asking?"
Rhys studied her for a long moment. Then—
"You cried in your sleep last night," he said, voice calm. "With every thunder, you shivered."
His arm tightened.
Pulled her closer.
"Do you hate thunderstorms, Naomi?"
Her lips trembled.
She turned away, staring at the ceiling.
She wasn’t supposed to be weak.
Not in front of him.
Not in front of anyone.
But—
She exhaled shakily.
"When I was fourteen…" she started.
Her voice wavered.
She hesitated.
Rhys waited.
She felt his warmth, his steady presence beside her.
For some reason, it made the words spill out.
"It was raining atrociously that day," she murmured. "I had just gotten home from school, and… and the sky was roaring, the wind was howling, the entire world felt like it was falling apart."
Her fingers curled into the blanket.
Rhys stayed silent.
"But when I walked in…" Her voice broke.
Her stomach clenched.
She could still see it.
Still feel it.
The cold floor beneath her knees.
The coppery smell of blood in the air.
The way her screams had gone unheard.
"I found my mother’s blood on the floor," she whispered.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Even the air felt heavy.
"I screamed," she continued. "I screamed and screamed, but the storm was too loud. No one heard me. Not the neighbors. Not the police. Not my father."
Her throat tightened.
She tried to blink away the burning in her eyes.
"It was raining," she whispered. "And my cries were unheard under the roaring sky."
The room was so quiet.
Naomi didn’t dare to look at Rhys.
Didn’t dare to see whatever emotion was flickering in his eyes.
But then—his grip on her waist tightened.
Fingers curling almost painfully into her skin.
And his voice—when he spoke, it was low. Dangerous.
"Who did it?"
She blinked.
Her chest felt hollow.
Empty.
"It doesn’t matter."
"It matters to me."
Her eyes snapped up.
And her breath caught.
Rhys was furious.
Not in the way she usually saw him—not with his cold amusement or calculated anger.
This was different.
His jaw was clenched. His eyes were burning.
Like he was barely holding himself together.
Like he wanted to hurt someone.
For her.
She swallowed.
"I don’t know," she admitted.
The words tasted bitter.
"But I know who ordered it."
Rhys’s entire body tensed.
"Who?"
She inhaled sharply.
"The same man who was about to sell me," she whispered.
Her lips curled bitterly.
"My father."
Rhys snapped.
One second, he was lying down beside her.
The next—he was hovering over her, caging her beneath him.
Her pulse skyrocketed.
"Rhys—"
"You’re telling me," he growled, "that the man who killed your mother tried to sell you next?"
Her breath came out in shaky pants.
The weight of his body. The way his hand gripped her wrist, pinning it above her head.
The burning in his eyes.
"Yes," she whispered.
Rhys exhaled sharply, closing his eyes.
For a moment, he didn’t speak.
Then—
"You were right," he murmured.
She frowned. "About what?"
His eyes opened.
"You should’ve come to me sooner."
Naomi froze.
Her heart stuttered.
The intensity in his voice. The sheer certainty in his words.
Like he meant it.
Like if she had come to him sooner, he would’ve burned the entire world for her.
A lump formed in her throat.
She hated this.
Hated the way her heart reacted to him.
Hated that she wanted to believe him.
She turned her face away.
"Whatever," she muttered, voice softer than she wanted it to be.
Rhys didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away.
Instead, he shifted, pressing his lips gently against her temple.
The warmth of his breath sent shivers down her spine.
"You’re safe now," he murmured.
His grip loosened.
Slowly, he pulled away.
Naomi’s breath came out in shaky exhales.
She didn’t want to be weak.
Didn’t want to rely on him.
Didn’t want to feel the way she was feeling.
But as she stared at him, at the man who wasn’t supposed to care, she couldn’t help but think—
Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone as she thought.
- Writer
