Chapter 8 Naomi
My eyes blink open against the raw, stinging morning sun.
The first thing my vision zeroes in on is an elegant, midnight box perched delicately on my nightstand.
It sits there like a secret, beautiful and wicked, looking displaced among my other belongings.
I reach out, fingertips grazing the smooth gold swirls that snake around it, curling and twisting like vines.
The delicate sensation of the swirls seems to tease me, and a shiver runs through my fingers, across my skin.
I’d had the same feeling from last night, when a man shrouded in darkness stood in my room. I hadn’t been afraid of him, even though I should have been. At least, that’s what he said.
I know it didn’t make sense, but I’d felt so safe with him, more seen and vulnerable than I’ve ever felt in my life.
I may not be able to remember his face, but I remember the chaotic sound of my heartbeat when he told me I didn’t know what he could do to me.
His voice unearthed my brokenness, leaving me raw, but… I wanted it.
I needed it.
I need something to make me feel again, and the pain that he promised felt like it could make me feel something, anything besides the constant pit of numbness that I carry in my chest every day.
Letting out a sigh, I slide the box from the nightstand and sit up. As I open the lid, it feels like the world falls out from under me.
Inside, it’s lined with plush black velvet.. Nestled in that seductive lining is a black rose, its stem clipped short.
The petals feel impossibly delicate, hinting at something that can be both beautiful and dangerous. Beneath it, a note scrawled in blood red ink. He must have come back to leave this. But why? I trace each letter with my fingertips:
You are gorgeous when you dream.
- Yours
The words pull a reaction from deep within me—my heart slams, hard and fast, against my ribcage, reminding me I’m alive. And I could chase this feeling over and over again.
I can recall everything he said, and it gets me wet all over again. The high of his intrusion was intoxicating. His voice had whispered through the tender walls of my soul, leaving no corner untouched, no secret hidden. He had seen through me in a way that left me in awe.
“What’s your damage, Gorgeous?”
The phrase plays repeatedly in my head, like my new favorite melody. The things he said shook me to my core. I wanted every bit of it.
His voice was like the kind Lucifer gifts his demons; a voice designed to lure you in, weaving sweet promises of dark temptations. The kind that urges you to give up your soul and surrender to them.
But it was his scent that had wrecked me. It lingered even after he was gone. A mix of ocean salt and cedarwood, crisp and intoxicating, wrapped around me like a spell. He put me in a trance that made me throw caution to the wind.
What is wrong with me?
I quickly shake the thought of him from my mind.
I should be furious. I should call Max. I should scream. But instead, I feel… grounded like he threw me a lifeline. What the hell does that say about me?
Then, a sudden realization strikes—cold and sharp.
I grab the tumbler off my nightstand and twist off the cap. At the bottom, a thin, cloudy residue clings to the hard plastic.
My fingers tremble as I stare at it. Is this relief flooding through me? Or terror? Both crash against each other like warring tides.
My hands shake as I stare at it. Evidence. Proof that I’m not insane—he drugged me. That is the only way I would have been so eager to offer myself to him, right?
My fingers tighten around the plastic until my hand quivers.
I should feel relieved, but instead, my throat constricts with something dangerously close to disappointment.
I exhale a harsh breath, stomach churning with a sickening cocktail of vindication and damnation.
Part of me wants to scream in triumph—I'm not losing my mind after all—while another part still wishes that I would have woken up to him in my bed.
The evidence in my hand both absolves me and condemns me.
A loud, unexpected knock rattles the door, snapping me out of vicious thoughts. I throw the tumbler back on the nightstand and quickly shove the black box beneath my duvet, my mind still in shambles. “Come in!” I call, willing my voice to sound steady.
The door opens slightly, and Tré pokes his head around the frame, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Good morning, beauty. Thought you were gonna sleep all day.” He eyes me with concern. “You feeling alright?”
I give the alarm clock by my bedside a quick glance.
Shit.
I tumble out of bed, rushing to the bathroom. I whirl around, accidentally slamming the door in Tré's face, realizing too late that he’d been following behind me.
“Oh gosh…sorry!” I shout through the door.
Flicking on the faucet, I tug my shower cap off the hook by the sink.
As I wait for the water to warm, I stare at my reflection, inspecting my curls for a bit too long, struggling to settle my frantic thoughts.
It’s wash day, but that’ll have to wait.
I have a design consultation with the Montgomerys in an hour—Carol, the sweet stay-at-home mom, and Richard, the kind-hearted judge, are expecting; I have to deliver the plans for the nursery of their second child, a baby boy to be named Rhodes.
They’re just about the best clients a girl could ask for, and I’ve poured years into creating their dream home. I owe them professionalism, not the unkempt mess I am right now. But as Momma says, “Fake it till you make it.” So, I’ll have to do my best.
I drop my towel in the warmer, moving on autopilot, but my mind can’t stop spinning, replaying the events from last night.
The faint memory of trying to seduce the intruder slams into my mind.
My head hurts, shame mixing with a guilt that knots tight in my stomach.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I breathe out a sigh.
I don’t have time for emotions. It’s fine. I’m fine.
“Listen, before you go, can you stop by Dad’s office? They wanna get on a video call.” Tré’s voice comes muffled through the door, jolting me, and I blink away the last bit of tears
The shower spray is set to hellfire, melting away the tension still coiled within me. It’s perfect. I finally allow myself to relax, letting the water scour away last night’s memory, if only for a moment.
“Ni, did you hear me?” Tré’s voice grows louder, even more insistent.
“Yes, dearest brother, I heard you,” I reply, tone dripping with false sweetness as I roll my eyes. “But I’ve got a consultation at 12:30 across town, so I can’t stay long.”
“Cool. See you in Dad’s office.”
“Max’s office!”
“You’re right, I keep forgetting,” he calls back, laughing.
“You know how Max gets when we do that; it's his office now.” I remind him. His footsteps fade away, leaving me to exhale a sigh of relief.
I scrub my body with my exfoliating gloves until I feel clean, and that’s usually not until flecks of skin roll off me.
Once I’m satisfied, I grab the warm towel and wrap it around me, feeling the comforting heat seep into my raw skin.
After quickly styling my hair, I throw on some business-casual clothes—something respectful and professional, the armor I’ll need to keep myself together.
I pull my blazer tightly around me, heading out the door with my heels in hand.
The Blaine brothers are all handsome in their own maddeningly distinct ways—at least, that’s what the women circling them like sharks seem to think.
In high school, girls would suddenly become my best friends, only to turn up at our house and throw themselves at one of them.
I hated it. Watching them fawn over my brothers’ no-nonsense, impenetrable, thick-as-thieves dynamic was nauseating.
You would think I would be blessed with forgetting my high school years since my mental state has been a bitch to deal with these past years, but these memories came back quicker than I would have liked.
As if their good looks weren’t enough, they were always taller than all the boys their age. All of them stand between 6'2” and 6’4”. That alone made the girls swoon.
Yuck.
Each of them has its own signature look.
Maximilien Blaine, the eldest, stands at 6’4” and is built like an athlete—broad-shoulders, cut like he’s fresh from some GQ spread.
His medium-brown skin sets off hazel eyes that he uses like weapons.
Girls have told me, unprompted, that Max’s stare feels like a loaded promise.
His hair is wavy and brown, cut into a fade with a mini hi-top that he perfects with a curling sponge.
He’s meticulous, always. My sister-in-law had been quick at the draw, snatching him off the market at sixteen.
The best part was that she didn’t use me at all.
That made me love her all the more. Her grace and beauty had caught Max’s attention, but her gentle brilliance is what intrigued him the most. He had been a lovesick puppy back then, and still is to this day.
Then there are the twins: Tristan and Trémaine, both standing at 6’ 2”. Although if you ask Tris, he’ll swear he’s 6’3”. They’re identical in their athletic-to-lean builds, medium-brown complexions, and gentle hazel eyes. But their styles are worlds apart.
Trémaine leans toward a classic definition of handsome. Clean-cut, with a Caesar fade so sharp it could cut glass, and a full beard that makes him look older than he is. Girls call him the “silent storm;” they’re drawn to his steady presence.
Tristan, on the other hand, is the wild card.
He rocks a fully defined curly fro that he keeps hydrated and immaculate.
Growing up, he and I dove into the natural hair community together—twist-outs, wash-and-go's, all of it. Now he says his hair is his crown, and keeping his curls “juicy like The Stallion’s booty” is practically a religion.