But I can't stay. I shouldn't stay. Last night I was desperate, cold, without options. In the light of day, I need to think clearly. I need to get as far away from Raymond as possible, somewhere he can't find me. And I need to do it before I become any more entangled with the enigmatic man whose house I'm in.
I look around for my clothes from yesterday, but they're nowhere to be seen. Instead, on a chair by the window, I find what looks like brand new items—simple jeans, a soft t-shirt, even underwear with tags still attached. My skin flushes hot at the thought of Sutton selecting these items for me, but I push the feeling aside. I need to get dressed and go.
The clothes fit perfectly, which is unsettling in its own way. How did he know my size? I finger the silky material of the bra, the cotton of the t-shirt—expensive, like everything else in this place. I find my own shoes by the door, now dry, and slip them on.
I open the bedroom door cautiously, listening for any sign of Sutton. The penthouse is quiet. Maybe he's still asleep. Maybe he's already left for work. The latter would make my escape easier, though part of me feels guilty about repaying his kindness with disappearance.
Not guilty enough to stay, though.
I pad silently down the hallway, taking in details I was too overwhelmed to notice last night. The walls are adorned with what must be original artwork—stark, modern pieces that convey power and control. No photographs, I realize. No personal touches that might reveal something about the man who lives here. It's a beautiful space, but impersonal, like an extremely high-end hotel suite.
The living room is bathed in morning light, the city spread out below like a miniature model through those floor-to-ceiling windows. I pause for a moment, taking in the view that most people will never see—the world from the perspective of someone who stands above it all.
My attention shifts to the front door, my exit point. I move toward it, each step feeling both like freedom and betrayal. I'll find a shelter, I tell myself. I'll figure out a plan. I'm young and capable and determined not to go back to Raymond. I'll make it work somehow.
I reach the door and wrap my hand around the handle, drawing a deep breath. This is it. Back to the real world, back to having no one to rely on but myself.
I turn the handle and pull. Nothing happens.
Frowning, I try again. The door doesn't budge. Is it locked? I look for a deadbolt, a chain, any obvious security measure, but see nothing that would prevent the door from opening.
"It won't open for you."
The voice behind me makes me jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I spin around to find Sutton standing at the entrance to the hallway, watching me with an intensity that pins me to the spot. He's dressed in what must be casual clothes for him—dark jeans and a gray henley that does nothing to hide the powerful build of his body. His hair is slightly damp, as if he's just showered, and his feet are bare against the hardwood floor.
"What do you mean, it won't open for me?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the thundering of my pulse.
He takes a step toward me, then another, moving with that fluid, predatory grace that marked him last night. "The security system is biometric. It only responds to my fingerprints, my retinal scan."
"You locked me in?" The words come out higher than I intended, panic rising in my chest.
"I secured my home," he corrects, still advancing. "There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
He stops a few feet away from me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, far enough that I don't feel immediately threatened.
"Why were you trying to leave, Cecily?" he asks, his voice deceptively soft.
"Because I can't stay here." I press my back against the door, as if I might somehow melt through it if I try hard enough. "I'm grateful for last night, for the shelter and the clothes and... everything. But I need to go."
"Where?" he challenges, taking another step closer. "Back to your stepfather? To the streets? To some shelter where he might find you the moment he starts looking?"
"That's not your concern."
"I made it my concern the moment I brought you here." Another step. Now he's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean scent of his soap. "You don't walk out on me."
The words send an electric jolt through me—not just fear, but something darker, more primal. A part of me responds to his tone, to the command implicit in his stance. It's a response I've never felt before, not even with boys my own age who've tried to flirt or seduce me.
"I don't belong to you," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
His lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Don't you?" His hand comes up, not touching me but bracing against the door beside my head, caging me in. "You came to me, Cecily. You followed me into my home. You slept under my roof, wore my clothes, accepted my protection."
"That doesn't give you the right to keep me prisoner!"
"Is that what you think you are? My prisoner?" His other hand comes up, mirroring the first, so that I'm completely boxed in by his arms, his body a wall of muscle and heat before me. "If I wanted a prisoner, I'd have locked you in that bedroom. I'd have taken your clothes, taken away any illusion of choice."
My breath comes faster now, my chest rising and falling rapidly. We're not touching, but it feels like every nerve ending in my body is aware of him, straining toward him.
