CHAPTER TWELVE #2
The words sounded harmless. But their meaning curled around my throat like a slow, knowing hand.
A long night.
Last night replayed in every nerve.
The way my naked body had pressed against his.
The way I had stood up against him.
The way he planned to make me regret it.
My mother stepped toward me and gathered me into a hug, her arms soft and smelling like expensive perfume and sunscreen. I held her tighter than I meant to, as if my grip could delay the next two weeks barreling toward me with sharpened teeth.
“Two weeks, darling! Be good, and listen to Riley. I’ll call the moment we land.”
Listen to Riley.
If only she understood what she was asking.
“Have a wonderful time, Mum,” I whispered. I could hear the hollowness in my voice, but she couldn’t. “Everything is perfect.”
Marcus gave my shoulder a firm, approving squeeze. “You two look after each other. We’ll see you soon.”
They climbed into the sleek black sedan, its leather seats swallowing them whole. The car pulled away with smooth indifference, heading toward the airport, toward the honeymoon, toward a world where their joy was untouched, undefended, complete.
The moment the vehicle disappeared behind a veil of palms, the air seemed to thin. The remaining silence stretched between Riley and me like a taut thread, humming with all the things unspoken and all the things he had every intention of saying.
Another black sedan rolled to a stop before us. The one meant for us. For him. For me.
“Ready, princess?” he murmured.
His voice was a quiet blade. Soft. Sharp. Slipping under skin without breaking the surface.
I turned to him slowly. “You shouldn’t have gone into my room again.”
He tilted his head, studying me with an expression that pretended to be thoughtful.
“Shouldn’t I? I figured we’re family now.
Families help each other.” He let that sink in, then lowered his voice even more, just for me.
“Besides, I wanted to see what you packed. Gives me a sense of what I’ll be… dealing with.”
A flush shot up my spine, equal parts anger and the kind of fear that made my bones feel hollow.
He smiled wider. Innocent to any passerby. Lethal to me.
“You should thank me,” he added lightly, picking up his passport from his suitcase and tucking it into his back pocket. “I’m making this really easy for you.”
“Easy,” I repeated, the word cracking slightly in my mouth.
His eyes gleamed. “For now.”
He crossed the space between us with that silent, predatory ease he carried everywhere, the early sunlight carving lines of gold and shadow across his shoulders.
He reached for his own jet-black suitcase, muscles shifting beneath his white T-shirt as if even the smallest movement was an assertion of control.
Then his hand slid toward mine. My suitcase. My things. My boundary.
Something in me snapped, fast and instinctive.
“I’ve got that,” I said sharply, the veneer I had worn all morning peeling away in an instant. My steps were quick, almost too quick, my hand reaching the handle a fraction of a second before his fingers closed around it.
He froze. Not fully. Just enough to let me know he had registered the rebellion.
He glanced over his shoulder, his smirk slow and unhurried, as intimate as a touch that knows exactly where it leaves its mark. “Hardly. It’s heavy, princess.” His voice dipped, warm honey over steel. “And your mother asked me to look after you. This counts.”
“I don’t need looking after,” I said, curling my fingers around the handle with a white-knuckled grip. “I can carry my own bag.”
It was such a small hill to die on, but it was mine. My one scrap of territory. My single, pathetic act of defiance in a morning where he had already trespassed everywhere else.
He turned fully this time, facing me head-on, his eyes dark and almost luminous in the tropical light. They shimmered with wicked amusement, the kind that understood everything I was trying to hide.
“You needed looking after last night.” The words were soft, meant only for me. “If I remember correctly.”
Heat flashed up my neck. Anger. And something I refused to name.
Before I could snap back, he stepped closer, lowering his voice to a velvet growl. “A gentleman insists, Luna. And besides…” His gaze dipped to my suitcase with a knowing flicker. “I know what’s in here.”
Blood roared in my ears.
He leaned in, his breath brushing my cheek, smelling faintly of mint and sin. “Let’s not start the trip with unnecessary resistance. It makes me want to test your limits early.”
I stiffened, anger fusing with fear until my ribs ached from the pressure. He placed his hand over mine, large, warm, unyielding. Not yanking. Not forcing. Just letting me feel exactly how impossible it would be to fight him.
The proximity hit me like a shockwave.
His body heat soaked into my skin. My hand, all bones and nerves and vulnerability, felt swallowed beneath his. My pulse, traitorous and loud, leapt instantly. I hated that he would feel it. I hated even more that he enjoyed feeling it.
“Get your hand off my bag,” I hissed, pulling with all the force I had.
He didn’t flinch. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
And with a single smooth yank, so casual it felt orchestrated, he pulled the suitcase toward himself.
I felt the moment it happened in my bones.
The zipper, overworked from years of travel and stuffed tighter than it had any right to be, gave one last trembling protest before it surrendered.
Rrrrrripppp.
The sound was violent in the quiet, sunlit drive. It echoed through my chest like the tearing of something internal, privacy, dignity, sanity, take your pick.
The front of the suitcase exploded open.
Time stretched into a cruel, surreal slow motion as the contents of my life spilled out in a tumbling waterfall across the polished stone.
My neatly folded clothes, my worn-in sweats, the moisturizer I rationed like gold, the small silk teddy I had slipped into the suitcase on some delusional “new start” impulse.
And then the lingerie.
Bright, soft, delicate pieces scattering like butterflies strangled in midair.
I felt the world tilt.
A flush surged up my face, so fast and so hot it felt like my blood had turned to fire. Humiliation slammed into me with breathtaking force, knocking the breath from my lungs.
Not here.
Not now.
Not in front of strangers.
Not in front of him.
The driver’s steps faltered. A bellhop, stacking flower leis nearby, froze. Even the hibiscus bushes seemed to witness my mortification, their petals blazing like open wounds.
My panties were on the ground.
On the ground.
Where my mother had hugged me goodbye moments before.
I wanted to disappear. I wanted the earth to crack open beneath me and swallow me whole. I wanted to rip Riley’s satisfied smirk straight off his perfect, infuriating face.
But I couldn’t move.
I was rooted to the spot, exposed, dismantled, undone, while he stood beside me in the wreckage of my privacy, the architect of my ruin, the only one who looked obscenely, devastatingly calm.
Riley looked down at the catastrophe he had created, and instead of offering the slightest whisper of remorse, his lips parted around a low, indulgent chuckle.
It slipped from his chest like warm smoke, lazy and appreciative.
His gaze swept across the explosion of cotton and lace at our feet, and something in his eyes sharpened with male amusement.
Mischief. Triumph. Ownership. All of it shimmered there, naked and unapologetic.
“Well now,” he murmured, dropping his own suitcase with a soft thud that sounded like punctuation. “This is getting more interesting than I expected.”
The sound of his voice slithered through me like a cold touch.
I stood rooted to the spot, suspended between fury and shame, unable to decide whether to scream or faint or bolt straight into the Pacific.
My pulse throbbed in my throat. My vision blurred at the edges, the resort’s perfect tropical serenity warping into a surreal nightmare.
The driver looked away politely. The bellhop pretended he didn’t see.
The morning sun caught every silky scrap of my humiliation and lit it up like a display.
And Riley enjoyed all of it.
He crouched down slowly, deliberately, his movements unhurried, as if savoring the careful build of my horror. He didn’t even need to touch me to violate me; he simply invaded the space around the remnants of my privacy until my breath refused to behave.
He reached out and picked up the smallest, most damning piece.
Black lace.
Barely there.
The pair I had bought two weeks ago on a foolish whim, wanting to feel pretty in my new life.
He held them up between two fingers, lifting them into the sunlight like a rare artifact he was appraising. The garment swung lightly in the breeze, fluttering like a wounded wing.
A deep flush climbed my skin.
His smirk widened, blooming slow and feral, so confident it felt like a hand around my throat.
It was playful on its surface, flirtatious in a way meant to torment, but beneath that veneer flowed something far darker: a reminder of his power, a reminder of exactly how easily he could take apart everything I tried to hide.
“Black lace, Luna?” His voice dropped into a velvet tone, rich and sinful.
“I would have bet money on white cotton. Sweet, simple, predictable.” He tilted his head, eyes sliding up to mine with a flash of wicked hunger.
“But this…” His fingers tightened slightly around the lace.
“This is a delightful surprise. Were you packing ideas for the next two weeks? Or were you planning on hiding these from me?”