The Wrong Man to Love

CHAPTER FIVE

I woke up with my hand between my legs and his name dying in my throat.

I yanked my fingers away like I'd been burned. The ceiling fan spun lazy circles above me, and the guest room felt too hot, too small, like the walls had shrunk overnight. I could still see it—him, the way his fist moved, the sound of my name breaking in his mouth.

I pressed my face into the pillow and screamed.

This was wrong. He was wrong. Damien Carter had been "Uncle Damien" my entire life, even if he wasn't actually my uncle. He'd taught me how to tie my shoes when I was five. He'd checked under my bed for monsters. He was Sienna's father, for Christ's sake, and I was supposed to see him as some kind of... of...

My body didn't care.

I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on jeans and a sweater that felt too tight, too constricting, and went downstairs. I told myself I was getting coffee. Nothing else.

He was already in the dining room.

The newspaper was up, shielding his face. Black coffee sat untouched beside his plate. He was wearing a charcoal suit, perfectly pressed, collar buttoned to his throat like he was trying to strangle himself.

"Morning," I said.

The paper didn't lower. "Isla."

Just my name. Rough. Distant.

I sat across from him, the table suddenly feeling like a canyon. Mrs. Bennett brought pancakes. I stabbed at them, not eating, watching the newspaper tremble slightly in his hands.

"You sleep well?" he asked. The paper still didn't move.

"Fine."

"Liar."

My fork clattered against the plate.

The paper lowered. His eyes found mine, and I saw it—the knowledge. He knew I'd watched. I knew he knew. The air between us turned to static, humming and dangerous.

"You look pale," he said.

"You look—" I stopped. You look like you did when you came. "You look tired."

He folded the paper with precise, angry movements. "I have work."

"On a Saturday?"

"Always."

He stood, and for a second, our eyes locked across the table. His gaze dropped to my mouth, quick, involuntary, then snapped back up. He looked like he wanted to say something terrible. Something that would burn us both.

He left without another word.

I sat there until my coffee went cold, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was eighteen. He was my best friend's dad. He'd known me since I had pigtails and missing front teeth.

I kept repeating it like a prayer.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown: Third drawer. Richard's study. The key is under the bust of Churchill.

I stared at the screen. My father kept a study here at the estate—he used it when he visited the Carters for business. I'd never been allowed inside.

I waited until the house went quiet. Sienna had gone riding. Mrs. Bennett was in the gardens. Damien was... somewhere. Not here.

The study smelled like pipe tobacco and old money. The bust of Churchill sat on the windowsill, heavy and ugly. The key was underneath, cold in my palm.

The third drawer stuck, then gave with a whine.

Files. Old photographs. And a Polaroid tucked inside a manila envelope.

A red car. A Mercedes, I thought, though I didn't know cars. The front end was crumpled, the windshield spider-webbed with cracks. Blood on the dashboard.

On the back, in my father's handwriting: March 15. The accident. Burn after reading.

I dropped it like it was hot.

"You're not supposed to be in here."

I spun around.

Damien stood in the doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. He'd been drinking—I could smell the whiskey from across the room. His eyes were glassy, dangerous, nothing like the controlled CEO from breakfast.

"I was just—" I held the Polaroid behind my back, shaking.

"Just what?" He stepped inside. Closed the door. "Snooping?"

"It's my father's study."

"It's my house."

He walked toward me, not stopping until he was close enough that I could see the pulse hammering in his throat. Close enough that I could smell the whiskey, the soap, the thing underneath that was just him.

"Give it to me," he said.

"What?"

"Whatever you're hiding."

I shook my head, pressing back against the desk. My heart was going to explode. He was too close, too big, too here, and I couldn't stop seeing him on that bed, couldn't stop hearing my name in his mouth.

His hand shot out, gripping my wrist. Not hard, but firm. Burning.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I'm not."

"You are." His thumb brushed my pulse point, and I made a sound—embarrassing, needy—that I couldn't take back. His eyes darkened. "Why are you avoiding me, Isla?"

"I'm not."

"You haven't looked at me once today."

Because if I look at you, I'll see your hand wrapped around your—

"I'm just tired," I lied.

He stared at me for a long moment, searching my face for something. His grip tightened, then loosened. His thumb traced the inside of my wrist, once, twice, like he couldn't help himself.

"Damien?" Sienna's voice drifted down the hallway. "Dad? You in there?"

He dropped my hand like it had scorched him. Stepped back. The mask slammed back down, cold and impenetrable.

"Don't go through your father's things," he said, voice flat. "Some doors are closed for a reason."

He turned and walked out, leaving me trembling against the desk, the Polaroid crumpled in my fist, my wrist still burning where he'd touched me.

That night, I lay in bed with the lights off, staring at the ceiling. The house creaked around me, settling into its bones. I told myself I was imagining things. Told myself I was being dramatic, that the thing with Damien was just... just...

A shadow stopped outside my door.

I stopped breathing.

The shadow didn't move. A pause, long and heavy. I could feel him standing there, could feel the weight of his presence through the wood. I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest, my heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.

The doorknob turned. Just a fraction. Testing.

I didn't move. Didn't speak.

It turned back. The shadow lingered another moment, then moved away, footsteps silent on the carpet.

I touched my wrist where he'd held me, pressed my fingers there hard enough to bruise, and knew I was lying to myself.

He wasn't my uncle.He wasn't family at all.He was something much worse.