CHAPTER 6
757 Words
The heavy, double oak doors of the Kingston mansion hadn't even fully clicked shut behind my mother and Richard before the silence set in.
It wasn't a peaceful quiet. It was the heavy, suffocating kind of silence that makes you hyper-aware of your own breathing. For the last few weeks, our parents had been the ultimate buffer, the noise, the laughter, and the polite conversation that filled the cavernous, marble-lined hallways of the estate. They were the shield that kept me from having to face the terrifying reality of my new life.
But now, they were on a flight to Aspen for a three-day weekend getaway.
Which meant I was entirely, completely alone in a thirty-room mansion with Ethan Kingston.
My stepbrother. My boss. The man who had pinned me to his black marble desk just days ago, whispering promises of authority that still made my skin burn.
I stood in the center of the grand foyer, my fingers clutching the canvas strap of my duffel bag so tightly my knuckles turned white. The overhead crystal chandelier cast long, glittering shadows across the polished herringbone floors. I looked up the sweeping double staircase. Somewhere up there, behind a set of heavy mahogany doors in the east wing, was the man who had ruined my peace of mind.
"Are you planning on standing there until they get back on Monday?"
The deep, gravelly baritone sliced through the quiet, making me gasp.
I spun around. Ethan was leaning against the arched entryway of the formal library, his arms crossed over his chest. He had already discarded his tailored suit jacket, the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, revealing the corded muscle I had pressed my hands against in his office. His dark hair was slightly messy, and his slate-grey eyes were locked onto me with a cold, piercing intensity.
"I was just... thinking," I stammered, hating how small and breathless my voice sounded in the vast foyer.
"Dangerous pastime," Ethan murmured, his gaze dropping slowly down my body, taking in my oversized knit sweater, my faded jeans, and my bare ankles, before rising back to my face. The sheer weight of his attention felt like a physical touch. "The house staff has been dismissed for the weekend. If you want dinner, you’ll have to make it yourself."
"I can cook," I said defensively, my chin lifting. "I don't need a personal chef to survive, Ethan."
"Good to know," he said, taking a slow, deliberate step toward me.
Every instinct in my body screamed at me to take a step back, but I forced my feet to stay glued to the floor. I wouldn't let him see how much he affected me. I wouldn't let him know that my knees felt like jelly just from him walking in my direction.
He stopped just a foot away. He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to look at him. Up close, I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his sharp jawline and the tiny, dangerous gold flecks in his grey eyes.
"We have a few rules for this weekend, Aurora," he said, his voice dropping into a quiet, commanding register that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
"Rules?" I repeated, trying to sound amused. "We aren't in the office, Mr. Kingston."
"No," he agreed, his eyes darkening as his gaze flicked down to my lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto mine. "Rule number one: we stay out of each other's way. East wing is mine, West wing is yours. Rule number two: if we happen to cross paths, we keep our mouths shut about what happened in my office."
"I have no intention of bringing up the past," I whispered, my chest heaving. "It was an accident. It means nothing to me."
A muscle in Ethan’s jaw twitched. For a second, a flash of pure, dangerous heat flared in his eyes, replacing the cold mask of the wealthy heir. He leaned in closer, just enough for me to catch the scent of his cedarwood and amber cologne, making my head spin.
"Make sure you keep telling yourself that, stepsister," he rasped, the word stepsister sounding like a dirty, forbidden promise on his tongue.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode up the grand staircase. I watched him go, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.
This was only Friday afternoon. I had seventy-two hours to survive.
- Writer
