I bristle. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.” He erases the space between us until I can feel the heat radiating off him. It’s a physical presence that seems to draw all the oxygen from the penthouse. “You’re sleeping in my room. In my bed. In my arms. End of story.”
His mouth looms over mine, and my body tenses in both anticipation and dread. A traitorous warmth blooms beneath my skin even as my brain screams at me to resist. For one dizzying moment, it’s tempting to give in to the urge. I imagine the weight of him beside me. His steadiness, the security of his arms wrapped around me, before straightening my spine and shoulders.
“You make this sound permanent.”
His eyes burn steadily into mine. “That’s because it is.”
The response slams into me. It’s quiet yet sure.
Unshakeable.
My mind lurches, whirling until it’s hard to think straight.
I need space.
Something solid to cling to before I drown in him completely.
My gaze catches on a bookshelf tucked into one corner of the open living room. I move toward it like it’s a lifeline. Most of the items there are predictable. Books with uncracked spines, a few modern sculptures, a bottle of bourbon that probably costs more than my rent. But there’s one thing that doesn’t fit. A small, framed photograph with worn edges and faded color. It’s the only thing in the entire penthouse that looks personal.
I pick it up carefully and find a younger Oliver grinning back at me with sunlight glinting off his blond hair and a smile that’s bright with mischief. He’s wedged between two other boys. One is older and the other younger. But they all have the same look. A woman stands behind them, visibly pregnant, arms curved protectively around all three, while a tall man beside her rests a hand on her shoulder.
It’s a snapshot of something I’ve never associated with him.
Home.
Warmth.
Family.
For a moment, time stops and I only see that Oliver.
The boy before he was an NHL superstar with a reputation for making headlines.
I turn toward him in surprise. “You have siblings?”
His expression tightens as he stops a few feet away. His gaze flicks to the photo before returning to me. “Yeah. That picture was taken a long time ago.”
There’s something in the way he says it, flat but weighted, that pricks at me.
I set the frame down gently, handling it with deliberate care. “You look happy.”
“We were. That was before everything changed.”
Even though I don’t ask what he means, the silent question lingers between us. When I glance up, he’s already watching me. His control fraying just enough to show what’s buried underneath it.
His knuckles drift across my arm. It’s a featherlight touch that feels more like a claim. A silent promise that says I belong here, whether I want to or not.
“Stop waiting for this to end, Rina. Because it’s not going to.”
For a beat, I imagine letting go, leaning into his arms and the effortless way he makes everything feel manageable.
It would be so easy to give in.
To sink into this.
Into him.
