Chapter 16
1443 Words
“Time’s up,” he said.
She kissed him first, this time, hard and needy.
He groaned. Placed her on the edge of the pool table—wait a minute, there was no pool table here—on the ledge in front of the windows.
Her legs wrapped around him again.
His hands moved up onto her thighs, under the shirt, gripping and teasing, holding her in the position he desired.
She pressed into him.
"He kissed the back of her neck," she went on, proceeding to catalogue various places. "Her collar
“You lose,” he whispered.
She kissed him softly. She smiled against his mouth.
“Maybe I wanted to.”
He pulled back just far enough to look at her. Elena's bare feet slapped against the cool marble of the rooftop garden. Wind whipped her hair across her face as she ducked behind a cluster of potted olive trees, heart hammering with a wild, giddy rush she hadn't felt since she was a kid playing hide-and-seek in the foster home backyard.
Six minutes remaining on the timer.
She pressed her back against the rough ceramic pot, trying to still her breathing. Far below, the city hummed: honks, sirens, the distant tinge of laughter—but up here, it could've been another world. Damian’s world. In this world, for this instant, she was winning.
Or so she thought.
A low chuckle was carried on the breeze.
She froze.
He wasn’t even trying to be quiet.
“Five minutes, thirty seconds,” he called. Voice smooth. Amused. Closer than she expected. She bit her lip to prevent a smile. This was ridiculous. Dangerous. Thrilling.
She darted to the left, towards the glass railing that overlooked the infinity pool. The water sparkled like liquid silver in the fading light. She crouched behind a set of lounge chairs and peeked through the slats.
There he was, walking across the roof with lazy confidence. His hands were in his pockets. He didn't seem to hurry like he knew just where she would hide.
Because he probably did.
She waited until he turned toward the stairwell door.
Then she bolted—straight for the elevator on the far side.
Her finger jabbed the button.
Doors opened.
She slipped inside.
Hit the gym level again.
Doors closed.
She leaned against the mirrored wall and laughed breathlessly. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The shirt, his shirt, clung to her skin.
The elevator dinged. She stepped out into the quiet gym corridor.
Empty.
Perfect.
Jogged towards the pool area, same floor, different hallway. Ducked behind the glass partition again. Racing heart. Adrenaline pumping in her veins.
Three minutes left.
She heard the elevator again.
Footsteps, slow
He was coming.
She pressed deeper into the shadows.
Then she saw him.
He entered the pool area. Stopped. Looked around.
Smiled
“You’re good,” he said softly. “But not good enough.”
She held her breath.
He walked directly towards her hiding place.
She ran straight past him, towards the stairs.
He grabbed her wrist. Not hard, just enough.
She spun.
He pulled her against him, chest to chest, their breathing intertwined.
“Time’s up,” he whispered.
She laughed-wild, free. "You cheated."
“I won.”
He backed her against the glass wall overlooking the pool. Behind him, the city skyline glittered.
His hands framed her face.
“You ran,” he said. “But you wanted me to catch you.”
She didn’t deny it.
He kissed her-deep, possessive, hungry.
She kissed him back, her hands in his hair, her body arching into him.
She had automatically wrapped her legs around him as he lifted her.
He carried her back to the elevator.
Pressed her against the mirrored wall as the doors closed.
His mouth against her neck. Her hands are inside his shirt. Skin on skin.
The elevator went up.
They wouldn't stop kissing.
When the doors opened to the penthouse, he carried her inside.
Place her on the island in the kitchen.
Stepped between her thighs.
“Look at me,” he said. She did.
His eyes were dark, intense, almost reverent.
“You’re mine,” he whispered.
She nodded.
Again, he kissed her, this time slower. Sweeter.
Then he stepped back.
“Stay,” he said. Not a command. A plea.
She smiled, a small but real smile.
“I already am.”
He exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath for years.
Then, he kissed her forehead.
Picked her up again.
Carried her to the bedroom.
Laid her on the bed. The next morning, Elena explored Damian’s penthouse apartment like a guest in a museum, lingering, peeking, extremely cautious, and half-afraid of touching anything.
The space was enormity defined: open-plan living area with a view that reduced the entire city to the stature of a toy metropolis, library filled with leather-bound tomes she had no concept of, gym with the faint scent of cedar and male sweat, and a kitchen spacious enough to host a dinner party she'd never attend.
She found a sunny reading spot she hadn’t noticed before, situated near the windows with a soft chair, throw blanket, and several of her favourite romance books resting on the side table. Not new, but dog-eared and well-worn.
Her heart stuttered.
He'd bought them. Or had them delivered. For her.
She settled into the chair. Drew the blanket across her lap. Opened the top book.
The inscription inside read:
For the woman who taught me that happy endings aren’t just in storybooks.
—D
She closed it swiftly. She pressed it to her chest.
This was too much.
Too fast.
Too perfect.
She needed air.
She put on her sneakers, grabbed her phone, and made her way to the private elevator. Damian left for a meeting. He said it was regarding a merger or something. He’d kissed her forehead before he left. Told her to make herself at home.
She pressed the lobby button.
The doors opened to a grand entrance: marble floors, flowers, and a doorman who smiled as though he knew her all along.
“Good morning, Miss Harper,” the young man said. “Mr. Blackwood said you might come down. Anything I can get you?” She blinked. "No. Thank you. Just. stepping out."
He nodded. He held the door.
She stepped outside into the cool October air.
Central Park was a short distance away.
She walked.
The paths felt different today. Familiar. But changed.
She reached their bench, the place where it all began.
Sat down.
Pulled out her phone.
Three missed calls from Mia.
A text:
Elena. Seriously. Call me. I’m freaking out. What happened after the date? Jasper hasn’t heard from you either? What’s going on?
Elena looked at the screen.
Then she saw the other notification.
A new text. From an unknown number.
She opened it.
A photo. Her.
Yesterday.
Sitting on that rooftop garden ledge, laughing and with her hair blowing in the air—just before Damian caught her.
No caption.
Just the photo.
And below it:
Beautiful.
But next time you run… I won’t play nice.
Her blood ran cold.
She looked around.
No one.
Just joggers. Dog walkers. Normal life.
But she felt it.
Eyes on her.
Always.
She stood.
Started walking back.
Faster.
The bracelet felt heavy on her wrist.
“She didn’t take it off.”
She couldn’t.
Because even now, her heart pounding in her chest, fear crawling up her throat, she still knew one thing.
She wasn’t fleeing from him anymore.
She was running to him.
And that scared her more than anything.
She reached the building.
Took the elevator up.
Stepped into the penthouse. Damian was there, jacket off, sleeves rolled, waiting.
He looked at her.
Saw the fear in her eyes.
The phone clutched in her hand.
He crossed the room in three strides.
Took the phone.
Gazed at the picture.
His jaw tightened.
Then he looked at her.
Soft.
Deadly soft.
“Who sent this?” he asked.
"Unknown number," she said, shaking her head.
He pulled her against him.
One arm round her waist.
The other hand cupping the back of her head.
“You're safe,” he said against her hair.
She believed him.
She shouldn't have.
But she did.
Because the fear was no longer just hers alone.
It was for what he might do to whoever was watching her.
That thought, dark and possessive and protective, ought to have frightened her.
Instead, it comforted her.
She pressed closer.
“Whispered against his chest”:
“Don’t let go.”
He tightened his hold.
“I won’t,” he promised.
- Writer
