My heart races. "I don't understand."
Calvin leans closer, his cologne—something expensive and masculine—enveloping me. "I'll take care of you, Wren. I'll keep you safe. All you have to do is let me."
There's a weight to his words, a promise that goes beyond the surface. I should be terrified. I should be scrambling for the door handle, demanding to be let out. This man is a stranger. A powerful, wealthy stranger who's suggesting... what, exactly? That he become my sugar daddy? My protector?
But I'm not scared. For the first time in five years, sitting in this limo with Calvin's hand branding me through my clothes, I feel completely, utterly safe.
"Why me?" I whisper.
His eyes darken. "Because the moment you spilled champagne on me, I knew you were mine." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and I belong to Calvin Mercer.
The ache between my legs intensifies, and I squeeze my thighs together, trapping his hand. He notices—of course he does—and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face.
"Does that scare you, little bird?" he asks, his voice dropping lower.
"Yes," I admit. Then, surprising myself: "And no."
His hand moves again, just slightly, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the seam of my pants. My breath hitches. Something is happening to me, something new and frightening and exhilarating all at once.
"Good girl," he says again, and this time I can't suppress the small sound that escapes my throat. "So honest for me."
The limo slows, and Calvin reluctantly withdraws his hand. I feel the loss immediately, like he's taken his warmth with him.
"We're here," he says, nodding toward the window.
I look out to see not a restaurant, but what appears to be a luxury high-rise, its top floors disappearing into the night sky.
"This isn't a restaurant," I say, confusion mixing with a hint of apprehension.
Calvin's smile is gentle but leaves no room for argument. "I have a better idea. Dinner at my place. Where I can take care of you properly."
I should say no. I should insist on a public place. I should remember everything I've ever been warned about going to a strange man's home.
But Calvin doesn't feel strange. He feels inevitable.
As the driver opens the door and Calvin extends his hand to help me out, I make my choice. I place my hand in his and step out of the limo, into whatever future he's planning for us.
Because really what the hell do I have to lose?
four
. . .
Calvin
It started storming as soonas we arrived, and now the storm batters my windows like it's trying to get to her. Lightning flashes, illuminating Wren's face in brief, electric bursts. She's curled on my couch, looking so fucking small, so fucking vulnerable, my chest physically aches. This feeling—this need to shield her from everything—it's new. Uncomfortable. Like someone's reached inside me and rewired my circuitry to have one purpose: protect the little bird. Possess her. Keep her. And as the thunder cracks overhead and she flinches, I know with absolute certainty I'm never letting her go back to that shithole apartment. She's mine now. She just doesn't know it yet.
"Tell me more about school," I say, keeping my voice gentle. "What happened after your parents died?"
Wren tucks her knees tighter against her chest, my sweatpants bunching around her delicate ankles. "I tried to keep going. For a semester." Her voice is soft, barely audible above the rain. "But the medical bills, the funeral costs... they wiped out what little savings my parents had. The life insurance barely covered the caskets."
Every word is like acid in my veins. The thought of her—young, alone, drowning—makes me want to destroy something. Someone.
"I was on scholarship," she continues, "but it only covered tuition. Not housing, not food. I couldn't work enough hours to pay for everything and still maintain my GPA."
My hand finds her ankle, circling it easily. My thumb could touch my middle finger if I squeezed. So fucking fragile.
"So you dropped out."
