Chapter 8
461 Words
Celina
Pain woke her first.
A sharp, punishing ache behind her eyes that made her groan softly and roll onto her side.
Not her bed.
The sheets were impossibly smooth.
Cool.
Black.
She opened her eyes.
High ceilings. Dark wooden floors. Abstract artwork that looked like it belonged in a gallery, not a bedroom. The air smelled faintly of cedar, spice, and something expensive she couldn’t name.
Money.
Her head throbbed.
She pushed herself upright—and froze.
She was dressed in a loose white T-shirt and black shorts.
“What the hell…?”
Memory came in flashes. The club. The dizziness. Elliot’s arms. The car.
Her stomach dropped.
She slid out of bed, heart racing, and followed the hallway in search of a bathroom. Marble. Soft lighting. A mirror that showed her pale face and tangled hair.
Someone had taken care of her.
That realization unsettled her more than panic.
She moved through the penthouse slowly—study, living room, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing Seattle spread beneath her like a promise. No sign of anyone.
The kitchen was all steel and stone.
She opened the fridge, squinting at bottled water like it might attack her.
Then—
Cologne.
Heat.
Presence.
She turned.
Elliot stood a few feet behind her, dressed in joggers and a fitted shirt, skin gleaming with sweat, hair damp as if he’d just come back from a hard run.
Out of breath.
His eyes locked onto hers.
Silence stretched—thick, volatile.
Her fear ignited into anger.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she burst out. “You don’t get to take me. You don’t get to decide where I wake up—”
“You weren’t well,” he said tightly.
“You kidnapped me!”
“I protected you.”
“You don’t know me!” she shot back, chest heaving. “You don’t get to act like you own me—”
Something in his restraint snapped.
He crossed the space between them in a single, decisive movement—hands bracketing her against the fridge, not hurting, but inescapable.
“Stop,” he said hoarsely.
She didn’t.
So he kissed her.
Hard. Consuming. Not violent—but overwhelming, claiming her attention, her breath, her words.
Shock flared.
Then heat.
Her hands fisted in his shirt before she could stop herself.
Glasses rattled. Cutlery clattered to the floor.
The kiss burned—anger, desire, control colliding in a way that stole her breath and shattered her protests into something dangerously close to a yes.
And just as suddenly as it began—
He stopped.
Forehead resting against hers, breathing ragged, eyes dark with restraint.
The silence that followed was electric.
Unanswered.
Unresolved.
And charged with everything they were no longer pretending wasn’t there.
- Writer
