The Puck’s Bunny

Ch.3

CLAIRE

Rain is my favorite scent in the world; it feels earthy, clean, and carries a hint of magic in the air. However, this is incredibly inconvenient, considering I'm stuck on a road with a dead car and a lifeless phone.

The engine coughs one final time before falling silent, leaving only the sound of the storm. Thunder cracks the sky, sharp and violet, while rain stings my skin as I stand on the narrow road, miles away from Eros Asante's penthouse—the place where I've pinned all my hopes.

"Please don't do this to me," I whispered, my palms pressed against the hood. I was so close—so close to arriving before my phone died, before the storm consumed the road. If the car doesn't start, I'm left stranded, alone, drenched, and invisible to the world.

No one is coming to look for me. The thought creeps down my spine like ice. A gust of wind whips my hair into my mouth, reminding me to keep moving; it's getting darker by the minute. I attempt to check under the hood anyway, as if I enjoy suffering. I squint at the chaotic mess of metal and tubes. It's definitely not something I can fix, given that my mechanical skills only extend to pumping gas.

My teeth chatter as I stand there, wearing a knee-length charcoal skirt and a blouse that clings to my skin like damp tissue paper.

I slide into the driver's seat, slam the door shut, and exhale a breath I've been holding since Queens. The storm outside pounds on the roof in furious, unyielding waves. The road is deserted, pitch-black, with no headlights or houses in sight. I rub my hands together, attempting to warm them. This wasn't how my new beginning was meant to start.New house, new job. But at this moment? All I feel is cold. And foolish. And completely unprepared. Water drips from my hair onto my cheeks, and I brush it away.

Great job, Claire.

The wind howls outside, and I curl up in the seat, hugging myself as another rumble of thunder rolls over the hills. For the first time accepting the live-in position, I question whether moving to Eros Asante's penthouse was a huge mistake. I rest my head on the steering wheel, hope draining away. With no signal, no tow, and no better ideas, my last, humiliating option is to sit here and wait, hoping some passing car takes pity and stops to assist.

Then I hear it.

The sound grows louder, richer, rolling through my chest like thunder with an attitude. I jolt upright—a motorcycle. Its headlight slices through the darkness like a blade, reflecting off puddles as it nears. My heart races with a mix of hope and fear.A stranger on a desolate road at night.But freezing to death in my car is not high on my to-do list, so I fling the door open and stumble out into the rain, waving both arms like a malfunctioning windmill.

"Help! Please, stop!" The rider decelerates, the engine rumbling beneath him like a living creature. For a brief moment, I wondered if he might disregard me, but then he pulled over, the gravel crunching under his thick black tires.

He's enormous. Even while seated, he is tall, with broad shoulders beneath a sleek leather jacket, and long legs positioned on either side of an absurdly powerful motorcycle. The storm reflects off his dark visor, completely concealing his eyes. Not a trace of his face is visible, as his helmet is securely fastened, giving him the aura of a grumpy, unapproachable storm deity.

Fantastic. Just the kind of energy I needed tonight.

"Car trouble?" His voice is deep and familiar, like gravel scraping against steel. No greeting. Absolutely no warmth. He didn’t even bother to ask if I was okay. If voices could scowl, his certainly would.

"Yes, please, it just died, and my phone too, and I..." I gesture helplessly at the sad hunk of metal behind me. He dismounts the bike in one smooth, infuriatingly confident motion. Up close, he’s even more daunting, towering over me by at least a foot.

Rain cascades off his jacket, dripping from his gloves, yet somehow he appears unaffected, as if he were made for storms. Without uttering a word, he strides past me toward the hood of my car. Alright. No small talk, then. He lifts the hood, leaning in as the rain pelts the engine. His shoulders tense, muscles shifting beneath his jacket as he examines wires and belts like he’s performed this task a thousand times before.

I stand a few feet back, hugging myself, shivering.

"Any idea what happened?" I attempted again, perhaps hoping he’ll be less intimidating on the second try. He doesn’t turn his face toward me.

That’s fine by me. Not that I can see his face anyway.

"Yeah. It died." Wow. What an astonishing diagnosis. Truly groundbreaking. His tone is so blunt, so dismissive, that I bristle at everything.

"I figured that part out," I mutter. Still, there’s no reaction. He continues to inspect the engine, silent, focused, and maddeningly composed, as if the rain, the darkness, and my spiraling panic are none of his concern. And the helmet remains on. No reveal. No face. Just a tall, storm-soaked figure helping me whether I want it or not.

My luck is unbelievable.

But right now, I’m thankful he’s here—thankful I’m not alone, drenched and stranded, grateful I’m still alive. He finally steps back from the engine, rain sliding off his gloves as he removes one of them. He wipes the water from the edge of the hood.

"It’s not fixable. Not here." The bluntness hits me like a punch.

"Oh." My voice is small, swallowed by the wind, rain dripping from my lashes. He turns toward me, helmet still down, unreadable in every way possible. He goes still. Just for a moment, then without a word, he straightens, the rain carving sharp lines down his jacket as if the night itself is holding its breath. He offers no explanation, no reassurance, not even a grunt. He simply turns away from me, boots splashing through a shallow puddle as he walks straight back to his motorcycle.

For a terrifying second, I think he’s about to leave me here. But he stops beside the bike, glances over his shoulder, and jerks his chin.

"You're coming or not?"

That’s it. No context. No instructions. Just get on.

I find myself hesitating, as riding with a drenched stranger to a place I hadn't intended to sleep tonight feels... unwise. But what options do I really have? My instinct for survival makes the choice for me.

"Yes! Wait. My bag." I quickly opened the passenger door and snatched my leather bag. The rain lashes against me from the side as I slam the door shut and rush before he can change his mind and ride off into the night.

He's already on the bike, one gloved hand gripping the handlebar, the other resting impatiently on his thigh. The motorcycle rumbles beneath him, alive and dangerous, vibrating through the soles of my shoes.

I swallow hard. This is madness. This is exactly how horror films start. But freezing alone in a dead car is worse, so I push my trembling legs forward.

"Where do I... um... where do I hold on?" I yelled over the roar of the engine and the storm, feeling foolish. He turns his head toward me. Even without seeing his eyes, I sense it—an intensity, a weight. Then, in that same gravelly voice, he replies.

"To me."

Just two words. Simple, yet devastatingly confident. My fingers feel numb. I grasp his shoulders and lean my weight on him to swing my leg awkwardly over the seat, especially since I'm wearing a skirt on the one night I need to climb onto a motorcycle.

Somehow, I manage to settle in behind him, having made yet another reckless life choice. What could possibly go wrong? The seat is cold and slick beneath me. My knees brush against the sides of his jacket, and heat radiates from him, a shocking contrast to the icy rain.

I place my feet on the pegs, my hands shaking as I reach forward, hesitating because holding onto a stranger feels wrong and dangerously intimate. He stiffens the moment my arms encircle his waist. Apparently, I've just committed the offense of making him uncomfortable.

The motorcycle surges ahead.

Wind crashes against us as he speeds up, the road becoming a blur beneath the whirling tires. I grip tighter, my cheek grazing the back of his jacket, his breathing calm and measured while mine feels like it might burst. Fear intertwines with something else—exhilaration, wild and electric, sparking through my chest. This is the most daring, reckless thing I've ever experienced, and my pulse has never felt so alive.

As the bike roars through the storm, a fresh wave of panic washes over me. Did he ever actually confirm he knew where I'm supposed to go?

I lean forward, nearly pressing myself against his back, and shouted near his helmet, "You didn’t ask where I’m headed!"

He doesn’t reply. Not a word. Not a hand gesture. Nothing. Either the wind has swallowed my voice, or he’s intentionally ignoring me. Both scenarios are equally terrifying. But then the road bends, and through the sheets of rain, I spot it—a familiar massive silhouette, the penthouse, grand and elegant, glowing against the storm.

As he slows down, his hand envelops mine where it clings to his waist. He pulls it forward and presses my palm flat against the motorbike's tank—firm, intentional, anchoring it in place. My body jolts, momentum pushing me closer as I lean against his solid back. Recovering from the shock, I realize he was steadying me, preventing me from crashing into him when the bike halts.

We arrive at a towering iron gate. Without removing his helmet, without uttering a single word, the gate unlocks with a heavy clank.

The bike comes to a stop in front of a winding driveway, rain cascading off us as the penthouse comes into full view—grand, illuminated from within, utterly surreal.

My heart pounds against my ribs.

I stand paralyzed, as I slide off the seat, unsteady on my feet, my legs trembling from adrenaline and gripping tightly for dear life. The rain appears to slow down. Something deep inside me warns that this moment is about to alter everything. Before I can regain my breath, he reaches up and unclips his helmet. As it comes off, dark hair tumbles messily into place. His gray eyes, intense and unreadable, fixate on me.

The air between us vibrates with an indescribable energy.

Eros Asante.

Hunched, shivering, I gaze at the man who just stormed in to rescue me on his motorcycle, and I realize with a shock of disbelief that I've spent the last twenty minutes clinging to the waist of my boss.