My eyes snap open.
He's there. Leaning against the wall of the penthouse, a dark silhouette against the glittering city lights. He isn't wearing glow paint, he isn't dancing. He's just watching me.
His eyes, those piercing blue eyes, find mine in the dim light. There is no surprise in them. No smirk. Just a calm, knowing, possessive certainty.
The world tilts. The music from inside is a distant throb; the cold air bites.
He's here. Of course, he's here. Where else would he be?
The fear is a cold, hard knot in my stomach but beneath it, a different sensation unfurls. A sickening, electric jolt. The forbidden pull, amplified by the vulnerability, by the sheer, terrifying inevitability of him.
He pushes off the wall and starts to walk toward me, slowly, deliberately. Each step is a hammer blow against the fragile remnants of my composure.
“You look like you’ve been through war,” he says, his voice low, cutting through the distant party noise with unnerving clarity. His gaze sweeps over my dress. “And you’re soaked.”
I can’t speak. My throat is tight with a mix of panic and something else I refuse to name.
“You can’t stay like that,” he continues, his eyes locking onto mine. “Come on. My room is just down the hall. You can clean up. Get something dry.” He gestures vaguely back inside. “It’s faster than trying to get a cab back to your dorm.”
Every alarm bell in my head is screaming.No. Absolutely not. Run. But the thought of going back into that party, of facing the long, uncomfortable journey back to my dorm soaked and sticky, with the panic rising… it feels impossible. Chloe is nowhere to be found. I'm alone, and the pill in my pocket… I need to check it.
My hand instinctively goes to the pocket of my dress. It's damp. I pull out the small, single pill. It isn't just damp;it's dissolving, crumbling between my fingers, a white powder mixing with the sticky residue from the spill. My lifeline, ruined.
A fresh wave of panic, cold and sharp, washes over me. My breath hitches. He sees it. His gaze, sharp and assessing, drops to my hand, to the ruined pill, and then back to my face. The flicker of understanding in his eyes is chilling.
“Come on,” he says, his voice softer now, almost gentle, but with an underlying current of absolute command. He takes my arm, his fingers firm on my skin. It isn’t a question. It’s an order.
I don’t resist. My body feels heavy, numb. Propelled forward by his touch, by the sheer force of his will, by the desperate need to escape the chaos, and by the terrifying, undeniable pull that hums between us.
He leads me through a less crowded hallway, away from the main party. His room is a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos outside; dark, minimalist, and impeccably clean. It smells faintly of expensive cologne and something else… something uniquely him. It isn’t a home, it’s a fortress.
“Bathroom’s through there,” he says, gesturing to a door. “There’s a clean towel. Your dress can go in the wash.” He tosses a dark green hockey jersey onto a sleek, leather chair. “You can wear this for now.”
I nod, unable to meet his gaze. My ruined pill, my lost lifeline is a gaping wound in my composure. I feel utterly exposed, vulnerable, and terrifyingly, irrevocably trapped.
I go into the bathroom, the jersey a heavy, alien presence on the chair. Of course, he would give me this instead of literally anything else to wear. My reflection stares back at me; wild eyes, soaked clothes clinging to my skin. I strip off my ruined dress and boots, my fingers still trembling. The cold air on my skin is a shock.
I pull on the jersey. It’s enormous, swallowing me whole. The thick fabric smells faintly of him, of sweat and something cleanand masculine. It feels like a second skin, a heavy, possessive embrace. I look at myself in the mirror. His colors. His name and his number are on the back. I am wearing his skin.
A shiver, not entirely from cold, runs through me. This isn't just a jersey. It’s aclaim.
I step out of the bathroom. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, nursing a glass of something amber. His eyes lift, sweeping over me, a slow, deliberate appraisal that makes my skin prickle.
“Better,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “My number looks good on you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. The fear is still there, a cold, hard knot. But beneath it, the forbidden pull is a live wire; sparking, humming, demanding to be acknowledged. I hate it. I hate him. But in this moment, wrapped in his scent, in his jersey, I can’t deny the terrifying intimacy of it.
He stands, setting his glass down. He walks towards me, slowly, deliberately, just as he did on the balcony. My breath hitches. I am a deer in headlights, frozen, waiting for the inevitable.
He stops inches from me. His hand lifts gently to my cheek, his thumb brushing against the last remnants of glitter. His touch is electric, a jolt that travels straight through me.
His eyes, dark and intense, search mine. “You’re shaking,” he whispers, his voice rough. “Still.”
“I…” I can’t find the words. My mind is blank, consumed by his proximity, by the heat radiating from him. By the panic-stricken, confusing storm of emotions raging inside me.
He leans in, his head tilting, his lips brushing against mine. It’s soft, tentative, a question more than a demand. My eyes flutter closed. My body betrays me again, leaning into the touch; a desperate, silent plea for connection, for release, for anything to silence the screaming in my head.
And then his lips press harder, more possessively. His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, consuming me. It’s demanding, intoxicating, terrifying. It’s everything I fear, and everything some dark, desperate part of me has been yearning for.
