Covert Desires

1. The Knock

Chapter one

The Knock

(Kiah)

N obody knocks at 2 AM.

Not during the off-season.

And definitely not during a tropical storm.

Yet there it is again—urgent pounding that cuts through the howl of wind and rain, forcing my paintbrush to halt mid-stroke.

Every instinct, honed from years I'd rather forget, screams danger. The smart play would be to keep painting my black flowers, to let the storm swallow whoever's out there.

But something about that frantic rhythm stirs a dormant part of me. An itch I thought I'd buried along with my past life. When was the last time my heart raced with anything but morning cardio?

The hammering grows more insistent. A voice carries between thunderclaps—male, desperate, demanding.

Fuck-it .

I set down my brush, dark paint dripping like blood onto the newspaper-covered floor.

"Hold on!" I call out, flicking on lights as I move through my sanctuary to the inn’s adjoining door. The storm throws shadows that dance like enemy combatants across my walls.

When I unlatch the door, the wind nearly tears it from my grip. And there he stands—six-foot-something of trouble, drenched to his bones.

In the dim yellow glow of the porch light, the unannounced guest looks like an unsettling mix of serial killer. He’s handsome by any standard, but I’m way past the age of letting dangerous men with haunted looks upset my entire world. Fuck that.

His raven hair is plastered to a face that belongs in a fashion magazine, all sharp angles and dangerous beauty. But it's his eyes that give me pause—arctic blue and feral, like a wolf's in winter. They lock onto mine with an intensity that sends electricity down my spine.

"About fucking time," the man snarls, trying to shoulder past me. His expensive suit, now ruined, clings to a frame that speaks of carefully honed strength. One arm clutches a duffel bag like it contains his soul.

I plant myself firmly in the doorway. "What do you want?" Years of training keep my voice steady, even as adrenaline floods my system. You don't survive 44 years on this earth by letting strange men into your home at night, no matter how pretty their packaging.

Know your enemy; know your target. This drenched man could be either. Except I have no idea who he is.

He doesn’t fit the profile of the island-adventure guests who usually stay at my inn. Even if he did, this is not the time for island adventuring.

"Room for one. This is an inn, isn't it?" His accent carries old money and fresh blood. Up close, I catch the metallic scent that rain can't quite wash away.

That's when I see it—a nasty gash on his temple, still weeping crimson. His white shirt is torn at the shoulder, revealing more than just storm damage.

This man isn't running from the weather.

I've spent too many years in the game not to recognize a hunted animal when I see one. He's young—late twenties maybe—but his eyes tell a story of violence that matches my own despite our obvious age gap.

"We're closed," I say, crossing my arms. "The inn doesn't open until December."

“Hmm. Doesn’t matter,” he declares, shouldering past me with a force that sends me stumbling back. The movement is deliberate, a test of boundaries.

“What part of we’re closed was unclear?” My voice carries steel, but he's already made himself at home, his soaked frame claiming my closest couch. Water pools beneath him, dark against the worn fabric.

My jaw locks as I watch him drip all over my furniture. "Go somewhere else."

The fucker is going to ruin my couches—not that the mismatched set in Reception is fancy or anything. Still, I prefer my furniture dry, just like my floor. I don’t want guests complaining about a moldy smell.

“No. It has to be here,” he insists, fingers tightening on the armrest.

“Why?”

“Please,” he forces the word through gritted teeth like it hurts him to be polite, “You can’t send me back out there.”

“I can do what I want, thank you very much. Especially in my own place,” I tell him as I calculate my next move.

He’s a bit taller than me and more muscular, but I could probably take him out; I’ve taken out men far bigger than him. The weight of my hidden blade presses against my thigh, a comforting reminder.

Calm down, Kiah , I try to talk myself down, fighting my natural instincts to remove any threat—forcefully, if needed. He’s just some guy .

There’s no need to jump into combat mode.

But he shouldn’t be here.

I don’t owe this asshole anything.

In the five years I’ve been hiding out on this island, nobody has ever bothered me during the off-season.

The stormy months are for solitude and introspection, hobbies, working on my strength training…stuff like that.

I’m not about to start changing my routine now.

But the dark-haired stranger refuses to take no for an answer. “Just tonight. I have nowhere else to go,” he insists. His eyes don’t change as he speaks—they remain dead, unmoving.

“Touching story, but you haven’t explained how you ended up here in the first place. There are no ferries now, no planes. Everyone knows the island is closed this time of year.”

“Private service. Our plane crashed.” He turns, and light catches the intricate tattoo wrapping his neck like a noose of black ink. It's beautiful and threatening at once, sins etched into skin.

I arch a brow, “ Our ?”

“The pilot didn’t make it.” His face goes blank, a carefully constructed mask.

“But you did?” Skepticism drips from my words. No one flies in this weather. No one survives if they try.

Plus, it’s 2 AM!

His grin is all predator, never touching those frozen eyes. “What can I say? I got lucky?”

The scar under his right eye catches the light - a thin, silver reminder that this man is no stranger to violence.

There is something so unsettling about this man’s presence.

I can’t bring myself to feel empathy for his situation. Maybe because I don’t believe him.

The urge to get rid of him is overwhelming.

Still, I can’t exactly chuck him out in the rain again. All the other hotels and inns are closed. The only people on the island are the locals peacefully asleep in their beds.

I couldn’t care less about what happened to this asshole, but I don’t want to wake up to find half the island decimated by some lunatic. These people have been nothing but kind to me; they don’t deserve it.

Plus, any action would undoubtedly attract outsider attention to the island—which would be problematic, considering I’m trying to keep a low profile.

God-damnit. I wish the phone lines were working, that I could just call someone to take care of this man, but alas, the storm has cut us off completely.

The bleeding stranger either stays here where I can keep an eye on him, or he takes his chaos elsewhere.

At least I have the training to deal with dangerous men.

With a heavy sigh, I reluctantly give in, going against my better judgment. What’s the worst he can do?

My voice is stern, assertive as I tell him, “You can stay, but only until the storm clears. Understood?”

“Thank you, Ma’am.” His gratitude is as fake as his smile.

“Don’t call me Ma’am.”

He cocks his head to the side. “What should I call you then?”

“Kiah is fine. And you are?”

“Kiah? Hmm…Nico.”

“And you came from?” I try again, unsettled by the lack of explanation.

He doesn’t answer, just stares me down with a curious look.

“Fair enough,” I concede, grabbing a room key from behind the reception desk. The faster I get him out of here, the better.

The drenched stranger stares wordlessly at the large wooden keychain shaped like a dolphin that I shove in his hands. He’s lucky I don’t shove it in his rude mouth.

“House rules,” I explain, gesturing to the door on the left, “My private space is off-limits, but you can use the common areas.”

Nico grabs the key without acknowledging my boundary.

“This is the part where you thank me.”

“Where is the room?” he asks instead, heading toward the hall without waiting for an answer.

I trot along to keep up with him. “Second door on your right. I need to put on fresh sheets—”

He suddenly halts, and I crash into him, almost losing my footing.

“I can take it from here.” Nico snaps his head around to glare at me with a snarl that could make the dead shiver, and I gladly part ways with a single nod.

He’s clearly not worried about fresh sheets, so why should I be? There are blankets in the cupboards, he’ll manage.

The unwanted guest heads down the dark hall to his room as I retreat to my personal safe haven, locking the door behind me.

It’s not much, but it’s mine—just a small open-plan space with a double bed, some armchairs, a rust-colored futon that doubles as a couch, and a mostly-for-show kitchen. To the side, an en suite bathroom with a shower completes the cabin-like refuge decorated with mismatched furniture and strings of seashells dangling from the roof like mobiles.

It’s a relief to pick up my paintbrush again and return to the midnight roses crawling over the canvas in acrylic. Usually, the strokes spreading over the white soothe the chaos in my mind.

But there is no calm for me now; my mind keeps returning to the strange visitor down the hall.

This storm better clear up soon so I can get rid of him. I don’t want to get caught up in whatever he is running from.

My life is all about peace and tranquility now; not harboring strangers bleeding in a storm—no matter how curious I am about who they are, why they’re here.

Boring is good.

Boring is what we want.

That little familiar pulse of excitement in my veins felt good, though.

Forget it, Kiah.

With a sigh, I dip my brush back into the back, forcing my focus back to my canvas.

But I don’t get far.

The next moment, my peace shatters like crystal on stone.

I barely register Nico’s presence before I feel the cold, unforgiving metal of a knife digging into my throat.

Pressing harder, he flicks his tongue over my earlobe, licking me as he whispers, “I’ve changed my mind…I prefer this room.”

Fuck.