Jasmine
The suite feels unreal in the quiet that settles after Adrik leaves.
Not the kind of quiet that comes before something bad happens, not the suffocating silence I learned in houses where kids cried into their pillows because no one came when they called.
But a warm, shimmering stillness that wraps itself around me and refuses to let the panic in.
The lamps cast soft golden light across the room, turning everything hazy at the edges, like a dream I might ruin if I move too quickly.
I’m sitting cross-legged on top of the huge bed, the mattress swallowing me whole, a plate of food beside me that still radiates heat, scents of herbs and butter filling the room in a way that makes my eyes sting.
It hits me how long it’s been since I smelled food made for the sake of comfort, not survival.
For months I’ve eaten in alleyways, in the back of cheap Ubers, crouched behind dumpsters while keeping one eye open for trouble. And now I’m here, in this ridiculous, impossibly luxurious suite, with warm rolls and roasted chicken and vegetables that haven’t come out of a microwave packet.
New clothes, still folded and crisp, sit in glossy bags on the armchair as though I’m someone worth shopping for, someone who belongs in designer and soft fabrics instead of thrift store castoffs.
It would be laughable if it didn’t feel so fragile. So dangerous. So… intoxicating.
I keep trying to make sense of all of it, tracing the path that led me from a flickering diner light to the brightest casino on the Strip. From clutching my last twenty dollars to winning ten thousand. From pure fear to the warmth of Adrik’s mouth on mine.
I should be curled under the blankets waiting for the other shoe to drop. My life has taught me to expect collapse before comfort, betrayal before protection, pain before anything resembling tenderness.
Growing up in the system carved that understanding deep into my bones. Every placement came with conditions. Every home came with a timer. Nothing stable, nothing certain, nothing truly mine.
When I aged out, I thought independence would fix everything, but it just left me alone in a world that didn’t feel built for people like me.
And then I met Matthew. God, I was so stupid. I thought he saw me. I thought he was gentle because he didn’t push too hard at first, didn’t grab me the way some men had tried to before.
He told me I was sweet. He told me I was lucky he was patient, that he’d teach me how to be a good girlfriend, a good partner. Every warning sign slid down my throat like honey. Every bruise was followed with an apology and soft words. Every broken promise was framed like love.
By the time I realized I had traded my old nightmares for new ones, I had nowhere left to run. And when I finally did run, it felt like dragging myself through barbed wire.
Tonight is the first night since then that I’m not looking over my shoulder.
The absurdity of that hits me all over again as I tear a small piece of bread and bring it to my mouth. Warmth blooms on my tongue, and the pleasure of it is almost disorienting. I swallow hard, because it shouldn’t feel this emotional to eat something as simple as a roll, but it does.
My life has been survive, endure, cope. Now, in this room, with this food, after everything that’s happened since the moment I stepped into that casino, my body doesn’t know what to do with the sudden absence of fear.
And then there’s Adrik.
I lie back on my elbows, stare up at the ceiling, and feel that now-familiar heat stir beneath my skin. Thinking about him is like touching something too bright.
He’s dangerous. Obviously dangerous. But he isn’t dangerous like Matthew. Matthew’s danger was the kind that slithered under your psyche and poisoned you slowly. Adrik’s danger is a blade. Clean, sharp and deliberate.
When he looks at me, I don’t feel like prey. I don’t feel small or foolish or one misstep away from punishment. I feel… seen. And God help me, I feel wanted. Not as something to control. But as something to protect. Something to claim. Something to keep.
I run my fingers over my lips, remembering the way he kissed me, slow at first, testing, learning, reading every breath I took like he was etching it into himself.
Then deeper, with enough hunger to melt every defense I had left.
I never knew a kiss could feel like a promise.
I never knew a man could touch me and not make me flinch inside.
And I never knew I could want someone like this.
So quickly, so fiercely, and so completely against all logic.
The clock glows softly on the bedside table. 3:56 a.m. He’s been gone for hours.
I told myself to stay awake so I wouldn’t spiral. But the truth is, I’ve spent the entire time thinking about him. What he’s done. Where he is. Who he’s dealing with. I don’t know the details, but I know enough.
I saw the change in him when his phone buzzed. That darkness sliding through him like a shadow stretching across the room.
It should’ve frightened me. It didn’t. It electrified something deep in my spine.
I sit up straighter when a faint sound echoes through the hall outside. A muted click of the lock. My heart stumbles, then starts racing, but not out of fear. Out of anticipation so sharp it’s almost painful.
The door opens.
Adrik steps inside as though he’s walking into a room meant solely for him. He’s showered. Fresh. His hair slightly damp at the edges, a few strands darker against his forehead. And he’s changed into a lighter grey suit that does things to my body I can’t even describe.
The color sharpens his shoulders, frames his chest, pulls attention to the length and strength of him.
But it’s his eyes that undo me. That pale, startling ice blue glows even brighter against the softer grey.
He looks carved out of intention and precision, every line of him unmistakably lethal and impossibly beautiful.
My breath catches. My whole body reacts before my thoughts can catch up, heat pooling low in my belly, my thighs pressing together on instinct.
This shouldn’t be happening. This desire, this pull, this aching, primal gravity that drags me toward him like I’ve been waiting for him my whole life without ever knowing it.
He closes the door behind him and looks at me, really looks at me, and it’s like something inside me splits open. Not in pain. In recognition. In surrender. My entire body lights up under his gaze, and every warning I’ve ever learned flickers and dies.
“Jasmine,” he says, voice low and warm and edged in something that goes straight to the center of me.
And I know, without him touching me, without him saying another word, that whatever happens next is inevitable.
Because I want him. I want him like I’ve never wanted anything. And nothing about this feels wrong.
It feels like fate, walking toward me in a grey suit at four in the morning.