Somewhere along the line, I’ve crossed a line I swore I’d never go near. My fear hasn’t faded. My anger hasn’t vanished. But threaded through both now is something darker and more dangerous.
Desire.
Chapter Fourteen - Simon
From the moment the sun goes down, I watch her.
Not obviously. Not hovering. I give her space in the apartment, sit where the shadows fall across the wall, arms loose, posture relaxed. But every time she moves, every shift in her breathing, every flicker of emotion across her face—fear, frustration, curiosity—I track it.
Eden’s trying not to look at me, but she fails every few minutes.
Her composure fascinates me more than anything. She’s restless, tightly wound, still shaken from the last few days, but she hasn’t collapsed under it. She hasn’t begged, cried, or tried some idiotic escape attempt.
She watches her surroundings like she’s solving a puzzle.
So I keep testing the pieces.
“What are you planning now?” she asks that evening, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. Her voice stays steadier than her heartbeat.
“Something different,” I say. “Something… clarifying.”
Her eyes narrow. “Clarifying for who?”
“Both of us.”
She straightens, suspicion and defiance sharpening her posture. “If this is another threat, I’m not in the mood.”
“If I wanted to threaten you,” I say, stepping closer, “you’d know.”
She doesn’t step back. That alone tightens something low in my chest.
I hold her gaze. “Tomorrow evening, you’re coming with me.”
Her shoulders tense. “You mean I don’t get a choice.”
“You get one,” I say. “Come willingly, or I take you anyway.”
Her breath catches, but she reins in the fear quickly. She doesn’t crumble. She doesn’t plead. Her chin lifts instead, stubborn and reckless.
“Fine,” she says. “Whatever.”
The way she says it isn’t surrender. It’s a challenge, and it earns my interest immediately.
***
The next evening, she steps into the living room wearing a simple outfit—dark jeans, a fitted top, her hair down and slightly messy from nerves. The simplicity only sharpens her presence. She looks fresh, real, unpolished in a way that makes heat coil low in my stomach.
I watch her walk toward me, the way her eyes meet mine before sliding away. She tries to hide the tremor in her fingers by keeping them busy with her jacket zipper.
“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “You’re going to get in the car without asking again.”
She huffs a breath, half annoyed, half nervous. Then she follows me, slipping into the passenger seat with a quick scan of the interior—dash, locks, windows. Always observing. Always assessing.
I start the engine and the car hums beneath us, low and powerful.
As we drive deeper into the city, neon signs smear across the windshield. People gather on the outskirts of a warehousedistrict—crowds of adrenaline junkies, mechanics, racers who live in the seconds between danger and disaster.
