CHAPTER 5: WEST WING SECRETS
698 Words
Calla's POV
The house was too quiet at night.
Except for the wind whispering through the cracks in the old windows and the soft tick of the grandfather clock downstairs, silence wrapped around me like a second skin. My room felt colder tonight. The sheets clung to my skin as I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep wouldn’t come. It hadn't for days. Not since he walked in on me cleaning the library and sat there like a storm waiting to break.
Ronan Vexley.
My boss. My nightmare. My obsession.
He didn’t touch me. He barely looked at me. But his presence was like fire on my skin. And now, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake him from my head.
The way he stood. The way his eyes dragged over me when he thought I wasn’t watching. The way his voice wrapped around my name like he owned it.
My fingers slipped beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts.
I bit down on my lip, breathing hard through my nose, letting the image of him flood my senses. His broad shoulders. That controlled arrogance in his voice. The scent of expensive cologne and something darker, sharper—power, maybe.
My thighs clenched. I imagined his hand instead of mine. Imagined what his voice would sound like if he wasn’t keeping it on a leash.
I whimpered, low and desperate.
Then—
Creeaak.
I froze.
That wasn’t the house settling.
I pulled my hand out, heart racing. There it was again. A noise. Something down the hall. I sat up, grabbing the oversized sweater I kept on the chair and yanked it over my head.
Barefoot, I opened my door slowly. The hallway was dark, moonlight slashing across the floor like silver blades. Everyone else should’ve been asleep. The west wing was supposed to be off-limits.
But the noise had come from there.
I padded down the hall, past the double doors that led to the main wing, and stopped in front of a heavy door I’d never seen open.
The West Wing.
I shouldn’t be here.
But something—curiosity or maybe just reckless stupidity—made me push the door open.
And there he was.
Ronan stood by the massive window, shirtless, his back to me. The moonlight painted silver over the muscles in his shoulders, the curve of his spine. He held a glass in one hand, the liquid inside amber and glittering.
He turned, and when his eyes landed on me, they darkened.
"Didn’t think you wandered at night. Or are you just curious, Calla?"
I swallowed. My voice came out quieter than I meant. "I heard something."
He tilted his head. "You heard me."
My heart stuttered.
He stepped closer, the air between us tightening.
"Are you scared of me?"
My breath hitched. He was too close. Not touching, but close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the heat coming off his body.
"I don’t know," I said truthfully.
He raised a brow. "Then you’re either brave or stupid."
I met his gaze. "Maybe both."
His lip twitched.
"Do you know the kind of man I am, Calla?"
I paused. "No. But I don’t think you’re the soft kind."
He nodded slowly. "I’m not."
Silence.
Thick. Hot. Charged.
Our eyes didn’t move. Our bodies didn’t move. But something else did—something unseen, burning and reckless.
His voice broke the spell. "I thought you didn’t talk unless it was work-related."
"I can."
"Then maybe you should go to bed," he said quietly. "Before I forget I’m your boss."
I held his gaze. "Too late."
He blinked, something raw flashing in his eyes.
Then his voice dropped to a command. "Get out."
I flinched. Not because he scared me. Because I’d wanted him to say something else.
I turned, head low, and slipped back into the hall, closing the door behind me.
My hands were shaking.
I didn’t stop until I was back in my room, back in the cold bed with my heart pounding like I’d run miles.
He hadn’t touched me.
But he didn’t have to.
And that was the real danger.
- Writer
