She rubs her eyes as she walks in, her voice still caught between dream and reality.
“You’re up early,” I say as she walks into the room.
I lean back in the chair, mug in hand, watching her.
“Didn’t sleep much.” She’s blushing. Flustered.
Her eyes flick to mine. A pause. She knows it’s because of her. Because of the way she broke under me, begged me, came apart until she didn’t know which way was up. And still—she looks at me like she wants to believe it meant something different. Something softer.
She slides into the chair opposite, positioning herself carefully. Her arms close around her knees, and she rocks just a fraction. The way she flinches when she moves — a wince, a sudden intake of breath—tells me last night lives under her skin in the form of pain. There’s heat behind her eyes and the quiet way she presses her thighs together tell the whole story—she wants more.
“About last night….”
I smile. Slow. Dangerous. “Last night was just the beginning, Summer.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t answer. I don’t let her. I stand, set the mug down, and walk around the table until I’m behind her. Myhands settle on her shoulders, heavy, grounding. I plant a gentle kiss on her shoulder, then stand back to my full height. I don’t want to ruin this moment; I want to enjoy the first morning we’ve had as lovers rather than enemies. But she needs to know. She deserves to know. So, I head to lean against the kitchen counter, standing where she can see me, and speak.
“There’s something you need to know,” I murmur, my voice low enough to make her lean in. “Something I’ve been waiting to tell you until the time was right.”
She stiffens instantly—I can feel it, the subtle quake that ripples through her chest where it presses against me. “What is it?” she whispers, her voice a thin thread of sound.
“It’s not something I can explain.” I hold out my hand. “I need to show you. Come.”
Her eyes meet mine, wide, searching. “Where are we going?”
I pause, just long enough for the tension to twist tighter between us. Then, softly, deliberately, I drop the words that make her freeze. “To my office.”
She stops dead. Every muscle in her body goes rigid, like I just drew a knife across the space between us.
I wait for it—the panic, the fire, the harsh words she usually spits when she’s scared. But nothing comes. Just silence. Stillness. And somehow, that’s worse.
“Why?” she breathes, barely a sound at all.
My jaw flexes. I drag a hand down my face, then rake it through my hair, trying to hold onto the thread of control that always frays when she looks at me like that.
“Because you only know half the story,” I say. “And half isn’t enough anymore.”
Her eyes burn into mine, steady and terrified all at once. “I thought I knew everything.”
I shake my head slowly, firmly. “Not all of it.”
Confusion flashes across her face, raw and unguarded, and it hits me harder than I expect.
“Then show me,” she says, voice trembling.
I study her for a long moment, weighing whether she’s ready—whetherI’mready.
Then I nod once. “Once you see this, there’s no going back. You’ll understand everything. Why I did what I did. Why I took you in the first place.”
“Jacob….” she whispers, chewing the inside of her cheek. “You’re scaring me.”
“Come,” I repeat, the word cutting this time, a command cloaked in restraint.
I move down the hall, the sound of my steps echoing through the house. The key hangs heavy in my hand as I stop at the door. I turn it in the lock, the click loud in the silence, and push the door open.
The air shifts the moment we step inside. My office is dim, the faint scent of tobacco and cedar still lingering from nights I couldn’t sleep. She follows close behind, and when I glance at her, I can tell she’s been here before—the flicker of recognition in her eyes gives her away. I expected as much. I’ve left her alone here enough times for curiosity to take hold.
But one thing Iknow—she’s never opened that drawer. The one with her name carved into the metal tab.Summer.
