Chapter 6
789 Words
For a full three seconds, I forgot how to exist.
Kaen stood there, half-turned, half-dressed, blood sliding from his ribs like a secret.
He didn't look like he belonged in this century—or on this planet.
And I didn't look like someone equipped to deal with whatever he was.
"Jesus," I said, because my brain apparently only had religious vocabulary left. "You're bleeding."
(Again. Of course.)
He didn't answer.
I took one step forward before reason yanked me back.
Nope.
Not my business.
(God, who even are these people? Mafia? Cult? Are they going to burn my house down next?)
He moved—slowly, deliberately—and said, "Go to bed."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Lie down."
Two words.
An order, delivered in a tone so used to being obeyed, and absolutely zero explanation.
There was blood on his hands, dark and wet. (His, or a souvenir from a fight?)
His eyes were dark, focused, burning with something I didn't dare interpret.
My brain short-circuited.
"I—what?"
Then the realization hit me, and I practically choked on air.
"Oh my god. Seriously? Now? You're half-dead and—look, you may be ridiculously handsome, but I'm deeply committed to not dying in the middle of a questionable hookup—"
(So, this is it, the invoice for my few days of room, board, and a few fleeting moments of something like joy.)
(Payment due upon receipt. Of course, these guys always wanted their pound of flesh upfront.)
(But I was absolutely not ready to pay.)
Before I could finish, his hand shot out, catching me by the wrist.
I yelped, twisting, but he barely exerted any force; it was like being snagged by gravity.
"Kaen—hey—"
He didn't reply.
With terrifying ease, he pulled me closer, spun me, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, breath trapped somewhere in my throat.
He leaned over me, his shadow blotting out the lamplight.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Fine. Fine. Just—make it quick, okay?"
Nothing happened.
No movement.
No weight.
Just… quiet breathing beside me.
I cracked one eye open.
Kaen wasn't on me.
He was next to me—head resting on the pillow, face turned toward mine, close enough for me to see the dark smudges under his eyes.
"Don't move," he murmured.
His voice was hoarse, somewhere between command and exhaustion.
I froze.
The tension in my body felt suddenly foolish.
"You really need to start clarifying your sentences," I whispered, unable to meet his eyes.
I would never, ever want to recall the mortifying moments right before this.
Note to self: never assume.
(He'd done this.)
But he added, so quietly I almost missed it—
"You want to take this house back?"
I blinked again.
That… what?
Of course! I do! I do!
But how? This time, I waited.
His breathing slowed.
Then slower still.
Until I realized—he was asleep. (Again.)
Just like that. (Again.)
I stared at him, disbelieving.
His face was close now, lashes darker than they had any right to be, lips parted just slightly.
It wasn't fair, looking like that and then passing out mid-cryptic statement.
His tone just now was unreadable. Not teasing, not cold—just low, deliberate, like a test.
My brain instantly went into overdrive.
Take it back?
Was that a metaphor?
Like—did he mean emotionally? Spiritually?
Oh god.
Was he doing that thing powerful men (always) do, where they pretend to hand you control so they can watch you beg for it?
My thoughts spiraled.
Take it back?
Was this some rich-people power play?
Offer you the illusion of control just to watch you jump through hoops?
But then... he had kissed me. In front of his... pack? Whatever they were.
And now he was asking, "You want...?" dangling my greatest desire right in front of me.
Oh.
I saw it now.
This was the game.
The "I'm too noble to compel you, so you must come to me" routine.
The kind where they expect you to undress yourself just to spare them the guilt..
I wanted to shove all 200 pounds of infuriating, cryptic masculinity into the deepest ocean.
...After I got my house back, of course.
I stayed.
His face was too close, his lashes too dark, his parted lips too distracting for a man who'd just dropped a bombshell and checked out.
A traitorous thought whispered: Eileen, you've had a twenty-year dry spell. Maybe... just maybe... this isn't the worst opportunity?
My brain short-circuited for the second time that night.
So I stayed.
Eyes open.
Heart running laps.
Waiting for morning.
End of Chapter 6
- Writer
