Chapter Seventeen — Kill for Her
856 Words
Naomi woke up alone.
The warmth from Rhys's body had vanished, replaced by cool sheets.
She swallowed the strange ache in her chest and sat up, pushing her hair away from her face. The memory of last night clawed at the edges of her mind—his warmth, his voice, his lips against her temple.
You’re safe now.
A shiver ran down her spine.
She couldn't think about it.
Not now.
Dragging herself out of bed, she freshened up and headed downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee pulling her toward the kitchen.
And there he was.
Rhys sat at the dining table, one hand holding a mug, the other scrolling through his phone. He looked like sin—his black button-down was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a glimpse of his chest, his sleeves rolled up, showing his veined forearms.
Naomi gulped.
This should be illegal.
His eyes flicked to her, and just like that, the air shifted.
"Morning, sweetheart."
That voice. Husky, low, dangerous.
She wanted to murder him.
Or kiss him.
She wasn’t sure which.
She scowled, walking past him and grabbing a plate. "Don’t call me that."
Rhys smirked but didn’t push.
She sat down across from him, pretending that her pulse wasn’t hammering against her ribs.
The breakfast spread was absurdly good—waffles, eggs, toast, fresh fruits. His family clearly went all out, and for a moment, Naomi felt out of place.
Like she was an intruder.
This wasn’t her world.
But then, Rhys reached for her plate, casually cutting her waffles into smaller pieces.
Naomi stared.
"What the hell are you doing?"
He looked up, completely unfazed. "You were struggling with the knife."
She wanted to throw it at him.
"I was not," she hissed.
Rhys raised a brow but said nothing, handing her the fork.
Her face burned.
Why did he have to do things like this?
Why did it make her feel things?
Clearing her throat, she focused on eating.
It was fine.
Everything was fine.
Until Rhys spoke again.
"I have work to do," he said, setting his mug down. "I’ll have my driver drop you home."
Naomi froze.
Oh.
She hadn’t expected that.
Not after last night.
For some reason, an uncomfortable feeling settled in her chest.
It wasn’t that she wanted to stay—she didn’t.
But the way he said it—so casual, so indifferent—made her stomach twist.
It was stupid.
She was overthinking.
"Sure," she said lightly, stabbing a piece of waffle. "Not like I want to be here anyway."
Rhys hummed, his gaze flicking to her for a second longer than necessary.
But he said nothing.
And Naomi ignored the way it made her feel.
---
The Abandoned Storage Area
Rhys cracked his knuckles, staring at the beaten, bloodied man kneeling in front of him.
Naomi’s father.
A f*****g disgrace of a man.
The storage area smelled of rust, gasoline, and something far more sinister.
Rhys had his men drag the bastard here the second he left the house. He hadn’t planned on doing this so soon—but after hearing Naomi’s story last night, after watching her tremble under the weight of her memories…
He saw red.
And now—
The man coughed, spitting blood onto the dirty floor. His face was swollen, his lip split. Rhys hadn’t even started yet, and he already looked like s**t.
Pathetic.
Rhys crouched in front of him, gripping his jaw.
"How dare you," he murmured.
His voice was dangerously calm.
The older man tried to yank away, but Rhys's grip tightened.
"How dare you do this to your own daughter?"
He didn’t wait for an answer.
His fist slammed into the man's face.
A sickening crack echoed through the air.
The man choked on a groan.
Rhys hit him again. And again.
With every punch, the image of Naomi—young, crying, drenched in rain, screaming for help—flashed through his mind.
By the time he pulled away, the bastard was barely breathing.
"You think she’s special?" the man coughed, spitting out blood.
Rhys’s jaw clenched.
"She’s already been used."
The words rang through the air like a death sentence.
Rhys stilled.
Slowly, his head tilted.
"Excuse me?"
The man laughed—a f*****g laugh.
"You think she’s clean?" he sneered, his bloodied teeth showing. "You have no idea how many d***s she’s had in her mou—"
A gunshot rang through the air.
The man’s words died on his tongue.
Blood bloomed through his chest.
He gasped, eyes wide with shock, hands trembling as he looked down at the gaping hole in his body.
Rhys exhaled, lowering his gun.
The silence was deafening.
He stared at the dying man.
And for the first time in his life, he felt nothing.
No regret.
No hesitation.
Just a cold, consuming rage.
"You never deserved her," he murmured.
The man let out a wheezing breath.
His body slumped forward.
Rhys stepped back, wiping the blood off his hands.
He didn’t regret it.
Not one bit.
Because Naomi deserved better.
And he’d be damned if he let anyone else hurt her.
- Writer
