Chapter 45 Nadia
NADIA
He’s put a spell on me.
That’s the only explanation I have for this insanity - this heat under my skin, this restless, magnetic pull that drags me up off my seat before my brain has even caught up.
One moment I’m staring at him across the room. The next, I’m standing. Walking. Closing the distance.
Each step feels heavier than it should, deliberate and inevitable, like I’m crossing a line I won’t be able to uncross. The air between us hums - thick, electric, wrong and right all at once.
He doesn’t move when I reach the sofa. He’s too still, too composed, and yet I can see the storm gathering behind those eyes. I sit beside him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the few inches of space between us feel like a living, breathing thing.
He’s massive - broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of frame that makes the sofa look smaller than it is. When I shift slightly, my knee brushes his thigh, and he goes absolutely still.
His hands - those big, veined hands that had been smoothing down the space between his thighs and his knees - freeze mid-motion. The muscles in his forearms tighten; his shoulders lock. His head tilts just a fraction, and then his eyes slide toward me.
He’s holding his breath. I can feel it.
The realization hits me like a sucker punch. He’s nervous.
For some unfathomable reason, this man - this giant of a man who could crush a grown man with a single hand - is holding himself back. Not because he’s afraid of me. But because he’s afraid for me.
My chest tightens. It’s been so long since someone gave a damn and put my needs before their own.
Without thinking, my hands move - hesitant at first, then deliberate - and I lay them over his.
It’s instinct. Stupid, reckless instinct.
But the moment my skin meets his, the world shifts.
His hands are warm. Calloused. Solid. The kind of hands that could destroy, yet right now, they feel like they’re holding something sacred just by existing in my space.
A strange sense of recognition curls through me - sharp, haunting, impossible.
I know these hands.
It’s crazy, but I do. Every nerve ending in my body is screaming it.
I know the way they’d cup my face. The weight of them on my waist. The feel of his thumb tracing lazy circles against my palm.
It’s there, somewhere, beneath the skin. A memory I can’t recall but feel all the same.
My throat goes dry.
This is absurd. I don’t believe in past lives, or reincarnation, or souls finding each other across timelines. And yet… here I am. Sitting beside a man who shouldn’t feel familiar, shouldn’t feel like he’s been here before, yet every fiber of my being insists otherwise.
Maybe we did meet in another life. Maybe we were something there - something unfinished that’s clawed its way back through time, demanding closure.
How else can I explain this tether between us? This pull that makes everything else fade into static when he’s near?
When Jude Mercer is in my airspace, the world stops spinning. The lights dim. The noise dulls. All that exists is him.
It’s intoxicating. And terrifying.
“I don’t want you to leave,” I whisper.
The words are out before I can stop them.
And instantly, my rational mind revolts. Are you out of your goddamn mind, Nadia? You barely know this man! You invited a stranger into your home, and now you’re asking him to stay? What are you doing?
“You don’t know what you want,” he says, his voice quiet but threaded with warning. Like he’s daring me to take it back.
“Usually,” I admit, my lips twitching at the honesty of it. “But right now, I don’t want you to go.”
His jaw flexes. “You want me to stay.”
It’s not a question - it’s a test. Like he needs to hear me say it twice, maybe three times, to make sure I mean it.
“I want you to stay,” I say again, steady this time.
He watches me for a long, long moment. “Can you tell me why?”
I shake my head, eyes on his. “I can’t. It just… is.”
And that’s the truth. There’s no logic to it. No reason I can articulate. Only the certainty that if he walks out that door, something vital will go with him.
He exhales slowly, his shoulders still taut beneath his shirt, like every muscle in him is bracing for something he doesn’t want to face.
So I do the unthinkable.
I move first.
It’s not like me - I’ve never been the one to close the gap, to reach for a man, to take the lead. Men have always come to me, circled me, pursued me. And I’ve always let them.
But this time it’s different.
Jude Mercer sits frozen beside me, too controlled, too careful, like he’s afraid to breathe wrong. So I lean toward him - slowly, testing the air between us, my pulse loud in my ears.
He doesn’t stop me or pull away.
His gaze tracks my every move, unblinking, intense. There’s restraint there, yes - but underneath it, I see something far more dangerous. Hunger.
And it mirrors my own.
I stop just shy of touching him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that my breath mingles with his.
For a long, breathless second, we just sit there - two strangers, two ghosts, two souls pretending not to recognize each other.
Then I whisper, barely audible:
“Stay.”
And the air between us ignites.
Jude Mercer kisses like a man possessed.
There’s no hesitation in him. No holding back.
One moment we’re sitting too close, our words tangled somewhere between sanity and surrender - and the next, his mouth is on mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s devastation, redefined.
His lips crash against mine like a man drowning who’s just found air, and yet somehow, he’s the one taking my breath. He kisses me like it’s a necessity - like this is oxygen, and I am the last source left available to him.
His hand slides up the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, gripping just tight enough to make me gasp. That sound - small, involuntary - seems to undo something in him. The tension he’s been holding, that impossible restraint, fractures.
And then the kiss deepens.
It’s chaos and hunger and memory all at once.
His mouth moves with a kind of precision that feels almost practiced - too familiar, too right.
His lips mold to mine like he’s done this before, like he knows exactly how I like to be kissed, exactly how long to hover before he presses harder, exactly how to tilt my chin so his tongue can slide past my lips and taste me.
When he does, the world disappears.
My back hits the wall. I don’t remember moving.
Maybe he pushed me there, maybe I stumbled.
But it doesn’t matter. All that exists now is the feel of him - the solid weight of his body against mine, the heat of his chest pressed to my ribs, the way his breath hitches against my skin like he’s afraid this moment isn’t real.
His hand moves, slow and deliberate, down the column of my throat, over my collarbone, until his palm flattens against my stomach.
That hand - broad, heavy, trembling just slightly - covers so much of me it feels like he’s staking a claim. Like he’s saying this is mine, not with words, but with the way his touch burns into me.
The heat of his palm seeps through the fabric of my shirt, leaving trails of fire in its wake. He isn’t just touching me; he’s learning me - mapping every curve, every breath, every shiver.
He kisses me deeper, harder, until I swear I can feel him in my bloodstream. The kiss turns from desperate to dangerous. There’s an edge to it, a warning, like he’s teetering on the brink of something unholy and I’m the only thing tethering him to this earth.
And still, I don’t pull away. I can’t. Because every time his mouth moves against mine, I feel something unspool inside me. Something I’ve kept locked away for years. Grief. Loneliness. Desire. It all comes rushing out at once, and I let it.
His kiss is a storm - violent, consuming - and I am its willing casualty.
When he finally breaks away, it’s not because he wants to. It’s because we have to.
He leans his forehead against mine, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling like he’s just fought for his life. His lips hover against mine, still close enough that every exhale from him tastes like heat and ruin.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The silence is electric, alive, dangerous.
Then he whispers, voice hoarse and raw, “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I swallow hard, my pulse thrumming in my ears. My hands are still tangled in his shirt, and I realize I’ve been holding on like if I let go, he’ll vanish.
Maybe he will.
But right now, he’s real. His body is solid, his breath is warm, and his kiss still lingers on my mouth like a brand I’ll never wash away.
I don’t know what spell he’s cast on me, what madness this is, but if he’s stealing my soul with every kiss, then I’ll let him.
Because somewhere deep down, in the hollow of my chest, I already know - it belonged to him long before tonight.