The building is quiet, the lobby lights dimmed, and the elevator ride is brief. When we reach her floor, I follow her down the hallway, my pace matched to hers. At her door, she stops and turns to face me.
“Thank you for dinner,” she says.
“Thank you for trusting me with your time.”
A small smile appears. “I’m still deciding if that was wise.”
“Fair enough.”
The moment deepens, too close and tempting to ignore. I lift my hand and brush my thumb lightly along her cheek, feeling the warmth there before leaning in. My lips press a gentle kiss just below her cheekbone, tender and deliberate, even as every instinct urges me closer. To claim more. To taste her mouth and forget restraint entirely.
I pull back before I do.
“Good night, Rowan,” I murmur.
“Good night, Kiren.”
She unlocks the door and slips inside, pausing only long enough to glance back before it closes softly between us.
I stand there a moment longer before turning away.
Leo is waiting downstairs. The city carries on, indifferent and unchanged. But I’m not. Rowan Hale is no longer a curiosity or coincidence. She’s intention. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
5
ROWAN
I’m dreaming about him before I realize I’m dreaming at all.
The setting is vague, stripped down to sensation rather than place. Heat and pressure blur together, the undeniable presence of a body too close to mine to ignore. I recognize his shape first by feel. Broad shoulders beneath my hands. The hard plane of his chest pressing me back. His height registers even here, the way I have to tilt my head to meet his mouth, and the way his body blocks everything else out without trying.
Kiren.
The name forms fully as my mind catches up to my body. His hands frame my waist, his fingers spanning easily, his thumbs pressing into my muscles like he’s mapping me. His touch is restrained but unyielding, enough to drive my pulse into a faster rhythm. I feel the heat of his skin through fabric that should be a barrier and isn’t. I feelhis attention lock onto me as if there’s nowhere else in the world he could look.
His mouth lowers slowly. When he kisses me, I feel every second of it register in my nervous system. My body reacts immediately, my breath shortening, and muscles tightening as if preparing for impact. There’s nothing gentle about the way he holds me, and nothing careless either. He’s aware of himself, of me, and of the space between us closing in graduated steps.
I taste him. Clean, dark, and unmistakably male. My hands slide up his chest without permission from my brain, my fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders as if standing on my own is no longer optional. He exhales against my mouth, a low sound that vibrates through me and travels deep into my abdomen.
His jaw is warm beneath my palm, the faint roughness there scraping just enough to make my breath catch. One of his hands moves up my spine and stops between my shoulder blades, holding me there without trapping me.
I know this man. Not fully or safely, but enough that my body recognizes the risk and leans into it anyway. When his mouth leaves mine, it traces along my jaw and my throat, lingering where my pulse jumps too fast to hide. I feel his breath there, feel the pause, the restraint, and the moment where he chooses not to take more even though he could.
That’s what undoes me. The knowledge that he’s holding back. My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, urgency overriding coordination. I manage two before frustration wins, and I tug it open, the buttons scattering out of reach. I press closer as his hands find mybreasts, cupping and kneading through the thin fabric of my blouse, his touch firm and reverent all at once.
“Moya,” he breathes against my skin. “I need you.”
I wake with a sharp inhale, my chest lifting in a rush, my sheets twisted around my legs. Sweat slicks my skin, clinging to the cotton tank top like I’ve been running instead of sleeping. My heart hammers hard enough that I have to sit up and plant my feet on the floor to orient myself.
The room is dark and quiet, the blackout curtains doing their job. My bedside clock glows 4:12 A.M. in soft blue numbers. I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers coming away damp, and press my palm flat against my sternum. My pulse doesn’t immediately slow. My body still thinks he’s here.
“Get it together, Rowan,” I murmur.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand, the floor cold against my bare feet. The apartment feels different in the early morning hours, stripped of movement and noise, everything reduced to edges and shadows. I pad into the kitchen, flipping on the under-cabinet light instead of the overhead. The soft glow spills across the clean counters and the empty sink.
I pour a glass of water and drink it too fast, swallowing hard as I brace my free hand against the counter. The water is cold enough to sting, but it doesn’t do much to quiet the echo of the dream still clinging to me. My body remains tuned to him in a way that makes no sense.
I stare out the kitchen window while the city sleeps below, lights scattered like embers in the distance. Kiren Sovarin occupies my thoughts without invitation, his presence intruding on every attempt at logic.
