2
1238 Words
The air hit my face like a slap—sharp, cold, and soaked in damp earth and old stone. I stretched, savoring the crack of my neck. A small rebellion after hours of rigid silence in the limo. My muscles, coiled tight from the vow and the rage simmering in my chest, were begging for release.
What? You didn’t think I’d stay in the car, did you?
My grandmother may be carved from granite and guilt, but I’m her favorite grandson. The last one standing. The only one who gets to mouth off without immediate exile. She might bark, but I always bite back.
Literally? Not yet. But the day’s still young.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, the tailored fabric screaming money while the building ahead screamed penance. The place was ancient, wrapped in ivy like it was being choked. A hush hung over it—not peace. Something older. Something watchful.
I expected locked gates or at least a nun-shaped bouncer. But the massive doors creaked open with a sigh. Like they’d been waiting for me. A trap? Probably. I knew traps. Lived in them. This one just smelled more like incense than ambition.
Inside, the air was thick with lavender and old prayers. Guilt clung to the walls. The floor muffled my steps, like the building was swallowing my existence. I moved deeper, half expecting some holy water to sizzle against my skin.
A blur of black and white passed me.
Nun.
She looked up, saw me, flushed pink like I'd just whispered something sinful. Then she scampered off, clutching a rosary or maybe her dignity.
Okay, dramatic. But effective.
I wandered further. The halls split off in different directions—dorms, chapels, mysteries. Whispers floated from behind closed doors. Hymns. Giggles. Secrets. All of it built to purify. Or control.
Naturally, I pushed deeper.
At the end of a hallway, a spiral staircase waited. Narrow. Wooden. Forbidden.
So I climbed.
Each creak of the steps felt like a dare. I reached the top expecting a chapel or sacrificial altar for troubled billionaires.
What I found was light. Warm, golden, spilling from an attic door slightly ajar.
I nudged it open.
She had her back to me.
Coils of damp, dark curls tumbled down her spine. A towel barely clung to her hips. Her skin glowed—brown, smooth, still wet from a shower. African. Maybe mixed. Maybe not. She moved softly, folding clothes, dancing a little, hips swaying to music drifting from a speaker.
Ella Fitzgerald. Or was it Nina Simone?
Her thighs had stretch marks. Her back arched slightly as she bent forward, grabbing a blouse. The beast inside me stirred. Not just lust. Curiosity. Hunger. Something primal.
I should leave.
I didn’t.
The door clicked shut behind me.
She didn’t hear. Or didn’t care. The music wrapped around her. Around me. She swayed. Innocent and sensual in the same breath. This wasn’t what Ellen Carson had in mind.
She turned.
We locked eyes.
And just like that, the world stopped.
Her face froze. Her hand flew to clutch the towel to her chest. Color rose on her cheeks. Fury.
She gasped.
I spoke before I thought: “Oh no, please don’t stop on my account. Not a fan of Nina, but your dance moves? Impressive.”
Her glare could kill. “How did you get in here?”
“No one stopped me.” I grinned. “Could’ve used a sign. Or a laser turret.”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Neither are you, unless towels are the new holy wear.”
She marched toward me, every step silent and sharp.
“Who are you?”
“Drew Carson.” I offered my hand.
She didn’t take it.
“I already knew that,” she snapped. “Sadly.”
I smirked. “Didn’t know I had fans.”
“I’m not a fan.”
She stepped back. Her foot caught a box. She stumbled. The towel slipped.
I lunged. Caught her arm. Kept her upright.
Big mistake.
Her elbow slammed into my chest. She spun, arm at my throat, eyes blazing.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
And then—the towel hit the floor.
She was stunning. Real. Raw. Her body soft and fierce all at once. Curves. Lines. Stretch marks. A glint of defiance in her eyes.
I didn’t look away. I should have.
She punched me.
Pain exploded across my face. My nose went numb, then hot.
Blood poured down my lips.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I groaned, hand pressed to my face.
She didn’t flinch. “You barged in. You watched me.”
“Maybe put the towel back on,” I muttered, eyes reluctantly lifting. “Unless you want to finish the job.”
Her mouth tightened. She grabbed the towel, snapped it back into place.
Tension crackled.
I exhaled. “You don’t even know me either. But you looked at me like you did. Like you’ve known men like me before. I don’t know if that scares you or if it’s just easier to hate me than admit what you felt when I walked in.”
Silence.
Then:
“Sit.”
“What?”
“On the bed. Let me see if I broke it.”
“You care?”
“I don’t want blood on my carpet.”
I sat. Breathing hard. Blood dripped onto my shirt.
She rummaged through a drawer, pulled out a towel and shea butter.
Not exactly sterile. But it worked.
“Lean back,” she ordered.
“Gonna kiss it better?”
“Shut up.”
She dabbed my nose. I hissed.
“Still bleeding,” she muttered.
“And still hard,” I muttered.
Her hand twitched.
“You know,” I said, “this is probably the most attention I’ve gotten all week. You sure you don’t like me a little?”
“Keep talking and I’ll shove this towel so far up your nose you’ll taste shea butter.”
God, she wasn’t joking.
I looked down. Blood stained the rug beneath my feet.
“You love this carpet?”
“Yes.”
I tilted my head, about to make a joke.
She cut me off. “Don’t even. Just because you’re some billionaire bad boy with a busted face and a famous last name doesn’t mean you get to talk like you know me. Or touch my things.”
I blinked.
No one talks to me like that.
Not even Ellen.
This girl—whoever she was—just clocked me, bandaged me, and still owned the room.
And I wanted her.
Not just to screw her. I wanted to ruin her, then rebuild her again.
The beast inside me surged.
I stood.
“What are you—”
“I need to go.”
“You’re still bleeding—”
“Better bleed somewhere else.”
I stepped to the door, opened it, then paused.
Didn’t look back.
But I knew. I knew I’d be back.
I didn’t know her name.
But she would learn mine.
And I’d find out everything else.
Because this place? This convent or cult or whatever the hell Ellen Carson thought would fix me?
Just handed me my next obsession.
A woman who didn’t give a single damn about Drew Carson.
And that?
That was a problem.
A delicious, dangerously addictive problem.
- Writer
