"Thank you," I murmur, cupping the mug in both hands, letting the heat seep into my palms.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch facing the fireplace.
I obey, perching on the edge of the cushion, back straight, as if ready to bolt at any moment. He sits on the opposite end—close enough to reach me if he wanted to, far enough to give me the illusion of space.
"Why were you running?" he asks after a moment of silence.
I stare into my tea, watching the steam curl upward. "How do you know I was running?"
"People don't stand in the rain at midnight because they're out for a pleasant stroll."
I lift the mug to my lips, buying time. How much can I tell him? How much dare I reveal?
"My stepfather," I finally say, the words like razors in my throat. "He... wanted me to do something I couldn't do."
Sutton's eyes narrow, his fingers tightening around his mug. "What kind of something?"
I shake my head, unable to voice the ugly truth. "It doesn't matter. I just couldn't stay there anymore."
"And you have nowhere else to go."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. No family, no friends he doesn't control. Nothing but the clothes on my back."
He nods, as if my answer confirms some decision he's already made. "You'll stay here."
Again, not a question. Not even an offer. A statement of fact.
"I—I can't," I stammer, though the thought of going back out into the night makes my stomach clench. "I don't even know you."
"You know enough," he counters, setting his mug down on the coffee table. "You know I could have left you in the rain. You know I've given you shelter, warmth, dry clothes. You know I haven't hurt you." He pauses, his eyes locking with mine. "You know, somewhere in that survival instinct that made you run tonight, that I'm your best option."
He's right, and that terrifies me more than anything else about this situation. I have nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. And despite every warning bell ringing in my head, something about this man makes me trust him.
"Why would you let me stay?" I ask. "What do you want from me?"
He moves then, sliding closer to me on the couch until our knees almost touch. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out and brushes a strand of damp hair away from my face. His fingers linger against my cheek, warm and slightly rough.
"Nothing you aren't willing to give," he says softly, but there's an undercurrent to his words that makes my heart race. "For now, I just want you to rest. To feel safe."
His hand drops to my shoulder, then slides down my arm, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When he reaches my hand, he takes the mug from my unresisting fingers and sets it beside his own.
"No one will ever hurt you again," he promises, his voice low and fierce, his eyes burning with an intensity that shouldfrighten me but somehow only makes me feel more secure. "Not while you're mine."
Mine. The word echoes in my mind, setting off a cascade of conflicting emotions. I should protest. I should clarify that I'm not his, that I never will be. That I ran from one man's claim of ownership only to end up hearing similar words from another's lips.
But I don't. Because in this moment, with the fire crackling and the rain beating against the windows and Sutton's hand warm around mine, being his feels like salvation.
three
. . .
I waketo sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows, my body sinking into a mattress so soft it feels like I'm floating on a cloud. For one blissful moment, I exist in peaceful confusion—not quite remembering where I am, but feeling safer than I have in years. Then it all comes rushing back: Raymond's threat, my desperate flight, the rain, the intimidating stranger who brought me to his penthouse. Sutton. Even thinking his name sends a shiver down my spine that I don't fully understand. I sit up slowly, taking in the guest room he led me to last night after our conversation by the fire. Everything around me speaks of wealth beyond anything I've ever known—the sheets alone probably cost more than everything I own.
Last night feels like a fever dream. After our tense exchange on the couch, Sutton had suddenly stood, as if needing distance between us. "You need rest," he'd said, his voice rough around the edges. He'd shown me to this room—this beautiful, impersonal space—and left me with a brief, "Sleep well, Cecily. We'll talk more tomorrow." The click of the door closing behind him had felt both disappointing and relieving.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet sinking into plush carpet. The borrowed clothes I slept in—his clothes—smell like him, a scent I'm already starting to recognize. It clings to my skin, marking me in some primitive way that should disturb me more than it does.
What am I doing here? The question pounds in my head as reality reasserts itself. I ran from one dangerous man only to put myself in the hands of another. Because Sutton is dangerous—I sensed that from the moment I saw him. The difference is in the nature of the danger. Raymond threatened me with cruelty and degradation. Sutton threatens me with... something else. Something that pulls at me even as it terrifies me.
