Bound By His Rules

Three

( Ava's POV )

The house was quiet again.

The kind of quiet that hummed beneath the skin.

Ava lay on her back in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The window was cracked open, letting in the cool night air. Somewhere outside, cicadas buzzed and crickets sang, but it was all background noise, distant, forgettable compared to the relentless pounding of her heart.

She’d told herself all day that she’d stay away. She’d promised herself on the drive back from the lake that she’d be smart this time. That she wouldn’t give him a single chance to look at her like that again.

But here she was, wide awake, replaying the sound of his voice in her head.

“We end this now.”

She hadn’t believed him then.

She didn’t believe him now.

The clock on the nightstand glowed 12:43 a.m. She should have been asleep. But sleep was impossible when every inch of her still remembered his touch, his mouth, the way his eyes had darkened like he’d been fighting himself.

The floorboard in the hallway creaked.

She froze, every nerve on the edge. This house made sounds, it was old and lived in, but this wasn’t the groan of settling wood. This was deliberate. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Familiar.

Her breath caught. She didn’t move.

Another creak. Closer this time.

The footsteps stopped outside her door.

She swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming against her throat. The doorknob didn’t turn. He didn’t knock. He just stood there, on the other side, as if he was fighting the same war she was. A war neither of them seemed capable of winning.

The footsteps moved again, retreating down the stairs.

Ava sat up, the blanket pooling at her waist. Her hands were shaking before she even realized what she was doing. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, toes touching the cold floor, heart pounding so loud it filled the room.

She should stay. She should lock the door. She should remember every reason why this was wrong.

Instead, she slipped into the hallway.

The house was drenched in shadows, the kind that clung to the walls and made everything feel secret. She moved quietly, barefoot, her nightshirt brushing against her thighs as she descended the stairs. The air grew warmer with every step, like the house itself remembered last night too.

A faint glow leaked from under the library door.

Of course.

Her hand trembled as she touched the doorknob. For one dizzying second, she told herself she could turn back. But she didn’t.

The door creaked open.

Brian stood at the far end of the library, in front of the same fire as the night before. A book hung loosely in his hand, though he wasn’t reading it. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, sleeves rolled up, chest bare in the flickering firelight. He looked up when he heard the door.

Their eyes locked.

It was like stepping off a ledge.

Neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly, filling the silence between them. Ava’s breath came unevenly, her hand tightening around the doorframe.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, as if he’d already been fighting himself long before she came down.

“I couldn’t,” she whispered.

He exhaled, slow and heavy, dragging a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” She closed the door behind her anyway, shutting out the rest of the world. “But neither should you.”

A faint, humorless sound escaped him, half a laugh, half a curse. “That’s different.”

“No,” she said softly, stepping forward. “It isn’t.”

Her pulse thudded in her ears as she walked closer. He didn’t move, didn’t retreat, didn’t tell her to stop. He just stood there, watching her with that same storm in his eyes that had undone her the night before.

“Ava,” he said, her name a warning wrapped in a plea.

“Brian,” she answered, her voice steady now.

He clenched his jaw, looking away for a moment like the sight of her burned. “You have no idea what kind of mess this is.”

She took another step. “Then tell me.”

He looked back at her, and for a heartbeat, his carefully constructed walls cracked. What she saw beneath them wasn’t in control, it was chaos. Want. Guilt. Hunger. All tangled into something dangerous.

“I can’t want you,” he said.

“Then stop looking at me like you do.”

That made him still. He took a slow, deliberate step toward her, closing the distance between them with quiet inevitability. She could feel the heat radiating off him now, the scent of cedar and smoke filling the air.

“You should walk away,” he whispered.

“You should’ve let me,” she whispered back.

Something snapped between them, not loud, not visible, but sharp and final. His hand came up, fingers brushing against her jaw like he was testing the edges of restraint. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull back. She tilted into his touch.

His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip.

“Last night was a mistake,” he said, his voice fraying at the edges.

“Then why are we here again?” she breathed.

He exhaled shakily, forehead dropping to hers. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Her heart cracked open, and the world tilted again. His breath ghosted over her skin, warm and unsteady. His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, holding her there like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

She closed the distance.

The first brush of their lips was slow, almost hesitant, like neither of them wanted to admit how badly they needed it. But then he kissed her deeper, hot, fierce, hungry. His hand tightened in her hair, pulling her closer, and she gasped against his mouth, her hands finding his chest.

The book fell to the floor with a soft thud.

He pressed her back against the nearest shelf, the wood cool against her spine. Every inch of him was heat, solid and unyielding, and she melted into it like she’d been waiting her whole life to burn.

“Brian…” she breathed, the sound of his name lost against his mouth.

He kissed her harder, like he was trying to erase the line they’d drawn. His hands slid under the hem of her shirt, fingers tracing fire along her skin. She shivered, arching into him, every rule she’d ever set for herself turning to ash.

“This is wrong,” he muttered against her lips.

“Then stop,” she whispered.

He didn’t.

He kissed her again, harder, deeper, his breath ragged, his control unraveling in her hands. She clutched his shoulders, nails digging into warm skin, as his mouth moved down to the curve of her neck. Her pulse fluttered against his lips, and the sound he made, low, rough, desperate, lit her nerves on fire.

“You drive me insane,” he said against her skin.

Her fingers slid up to the back of his neck. “You’re not exactly making it easy.”

He laughed softly, a sound that vibrated against her throat. It wasn’t humor. It was surrender.

His hands roamed down her sides, every touch carving her open, until she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. The firelight flickered over his face, over the sharp lines and shadows, over the hunger he no longer bothered to hide.

She tilted her head back, eyes fluttering shut as his lips trailed down to her collarbone. Her breath came out shaky, a soft sound escaping her as his fingers pressed into her hips.

“Ava,” he whispered, the word a warning and a promise all at once.

She met his gaze. “Don’t stop.”

Something in him broke.

He kissed her again, dragging her impossibly closer, the world falling away around them. The shelves, the fire, the old house, it all blurred into the background until there was only him. His hands. His mouth. The sharp, breathless heat between them.

Her back arched, fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed her like he’d been starving for it. Like he’d spent every second since last night trying and failing to forget.

They didn’t say her name again. They didn’t talk about rules. They just fell, headlong, reckless, and dangerous.

When he finally pulled back, their breaths mingled, both of them shaking. His forehead pressed to hers, their hearts hammering in the same wild rhythm.

“This isn’t supposed to happen,” he said, voice raw.

“But it did,” she whispered. “It keeps happening.”

He let out a rough exhale, thumb brushing her cheek. “I don’t know how to stay away from you.”

“You don’t,” she said softly. “And neither do I.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, caught in the dangerous stillness between wanting and ruin. His hand stayed on her face like he couldn’t quite let go, like some invisible thread kept pulling him back to her.

“Go upstairs,” he said finally, but his voice lacked conviction. “Before I forget why I’m supposed to be the one who stops this.”

She searched his face, the flicker of war behind his eyes, and she nodded slowly. But when she stepped back, he didn’t move. He just stood there, watching her like every step she took away from him hurt.

She turned toward the door, hand on the knob, chest still heaving. And then she heard it.

“Ava.”

She froze.

He didn’t move toward her, but his voice carried through the quiet like a confession. “I’m trying. I swear to God, I’m trying.”

She looked over her shoulder, firelight catching the edges of him. Barefoot. Shirt open. Hands clenched at his sides like holding himself back was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“So am I,” she whispered.

Then she left before she could make it worse. Before she could make it better.

Upstairs, she leaned against her door, breath shaking. She pressed her fingers to her lips, still swollen from his kiss, and knew that no matter how many times they said it should stop, it wouldn’t.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

Because some lines don’t disappear once you cross them. They just pull you deeper.