Harper
I was so attracted to Xabat, it embarrassed me. A visceral, stomach-flipping pull that made my cheeks flush hot and my pulse quicken. Since Seth died, I hadn't even thought of another man, hadn't once felt that electric spark of desire that made your skin hypersensitive and your breath catch. I'd actually gotten pissed when billionaire Declan Hewes asked me out after Seth's Medal of Honor ceremony at the White House last year. Not that I would have minded dating a billionaire, but the timing of it all just struck me as tacky and opportunistic, like a vulture circling before the body had even cooled.
Now this gorgeous guy stood in my house, simply because his brother asked. April would've thought me crazy for letting a strange man inside. I couldn't explain it, but the moment his knuckles rapped against my door, the strangest sense of relief washed over me. Logic said I should've been terrified of him based on his sheer size alone—the dude was massive, nearly seven feet with shoulders that seemed to span the width of the doorframe. But fear never manifested. Instead, I found myself mesmerized.
He was gorgeous in a way that seemed almost unreal, like a romance novel cover had peeled itself off the page and materialized in three dimensions before me. His features were strong and classical—Romanesque, with a sharp jawline that could've been carved from marble, high cheekbones, and astraight nose. His hair was long and black as midnight. The front section was pulled up in a man bun, while the rest cascaded over his broad shoulders in thick, glossy waves. His eyes were the most striking feature—so deep and rich that they appeared almost purple, like twilight settling over the ocean. And his smell… God, his smell. It wrapped around me the moment he stepped inside. Warm cinnamon, clove, and something earthy and sweet, like one of those harvest spice candles—the expensive ones that cost fifty dollars and actually smell like autumn instead of a chemical facsimile.
It was so sweet that Xytol worried about me. Sweeter still that Xabat came in his stead, dropping everything simply because a brother he hadn't seen in years asked him to check on me.
I wasn't being the best hostess. My southern mama was surely rolling over in her grave at the sight of me standing there with a guest in my house, not having offered so much as a glass of water or a place to sit. The rules of Southern hospitality had been drilled into me since childhood. You offer refreshments within the first few minutes, make your guest feel comfortable, and act as if their presence was the greatest gift you could receive. But with the hurricane bearing down on us, the wind already rattling the shutters and the sky gone the color of old bruises, I allowed myself a lapse in manners. Special circumstances, I told myself. Mama would understand. Maybe.
I finally worked up the courage to ask about his plans for riding out the storm—where he intended to hunker down, whether he had supplies, and if he needed a place to stay. If he was a sailor just having arrived in port, I doubted he had anywhere to go. I knew from experience that all the inland hotels were booked solid by now. The question was forming on my tongue when the lights went out.
The world plunged into absolute darkness so suddenly that it felt like being swallowed by some creature from the deep. My yelp escaped before I could stop it, a sharp, embarrassing sound that echoed through the house. The sound came from shock, the startling transition from light to dark, from the familiar hum of electricity to the sudden, oppressive quiet broken only by the storm's howl. Fright didn't come into it until a heartbeat later.
"I'm afraid what my brother was worried about is about to happen."
I gulped, my heart suddenly racing. The darkness felt different now. Thick, almost tangible, with a weight that pressed against my skin like a living thing.
"What do you mean?" I whispered, my voice small and breathless. The winds bellowed outside, a menacing backdrop.
"I don't know exactly," Xabat said, peering intently through the cracks in the interior shutters. "My brother didn't ask me to come because of the storm. He had me come because he felt you were in danger."
"Danger?" I blurted, stunned. "What kind of danger could I be in for heaven's sake. I'm an elementary school teacher." There'd been times right after Seth's death when paranoia had me jumping at every shadow, but not for a while now.
Xabat glanced at me, his deep purple eyes scanning me with an intensity that made me tingle. "I don't know," he admitted. "Only that Xytol felt you were in danger and asked me to protect you."
A strange flutter moved through my chest at his words.Protect you. When was the last time anyone said something like that to me? Seth had always been the protector, but he'd been gone for three years now. I'd learned to be my own fortress, my own armor. I paid my own bills, fixed my own leaky faucets, and changed my own flat tires. I didn't need protecting.
Except the way Xabat said it, with that quiet certainty in his voice, made something inside me soften. Something I'd kept locked up tight for a long time.
It felt dangerous to want that. Dangerous to let myself imagine what it might be like to have someone stand between me and whatever darkness lurked. To not have to be strong for once and hold everything together through sheer force of will and spite. To not feel so incredibly alone.
I swallowed hard, pushing the feeling down where it belonged. "Well," I said, trying to inject some lightness into my voice, "I hope your brother's intuition is wrong. Because right now the only danger I'm facing is a dead refrigerator and warm wine."
But even as I said it, the wind outside shrieked louder, and I couldn't shake the sensation that something had shifted. That the darkness pressing against the shutters wasn't just the absence of light.
Something was waiting.
But the strangest part of all this wasn't the foreboding sense of doom. It was the fact that despite it all, I felt safe with Xabat.
It made no logical sense. A man I'd never met, built like he could snap me in half without breaking a sweat, standing in my dark living room while a hurricane tore at the walls outside. Every self-defense class I'd ever taken, every true crime podcast I'd ever binged, every warning drilled into me since childhood screamed that this was exactly the scenario where women ended up as statistics.
But my gut—that instinctive part of me that had nothing to do with logic—remained utterly calm. More than calm. It was like my body recognized him somehow, trusted him on a level that bypassed my brain entirely. The same way you just knowwhen you're being watched, or sense danger before you see it. Except this was the opposite. This was recognition. Safety.
I didn't understand it. Couldn't explain it. But I felt it, bone-deep and undeniable.
Xabat moved through the room, his footfalls surprisingly quiet against the hardwood floor despite his massive frame. I tracked his movements by sound, the hollow thud of wooden shutters swinging closed one by one. With each window he sealed, the room grew darker. The thin gray light from the street diminished until it was swallowed entirely by shadow. The last shutter closed with a decisive snap, plunging us into darkness so complete it felt like a physical presence.
I stood frozen in the kitchen, my sense of spatial awareness evaporating in the blackness. The familiar room, the one I'd navigated thousands of times, suddenly felt alien and vast. My hands reached out instinctively, fingers grasping nothing but air. "Can you see what you're doing?" I hissed, my voice sharp.
"I see pretty well in the dark," Xabat said, his voice low and steady, coming from much closer than I expected. A soft rustling sound followed his words, and then suddenly a warm hand encircled my elbow with surprising gentleness, as though I were made of something fragile that might shatter under too much pressure. "Let me help you," he murmured, his breath warm against my temple.
Xabat guided me backward, his hand hovering near my shoulders, protective but not confining. I took three shuffling steps, my feet uncertain on the floor I knew by heart, until my spine met the cool plaster of the wall. My hand shot out reflexively and found the smooth edge of the kitchen cabinets, fingers curling around the familiar lip of the countertop. The layout created a small alcove where the wall jutted out to accommodate the plumbing. A recessed space barely two feetdeep, shadowed even in daylight, perfect for hiding or for perhaps laying a trap.
As if reading my mind, I felt the touch of his fingertips on my cheek. "Don't be afraid," he whispered, his voice so close I felt the warmth of his breath. "Whatever is coming, I'm here."
His touch was unexpectedly gentle for someone so massive, his fingers barely brushing my skin. But in that moment, something electric passed between us. A connection that went beyond physical touch, beyond logic, beyond anything I could comprehend.
