Chapter 31
“No!” Natalie laughed, pressing her palms against his chest as he stepped into the shower, warm steam curling around them.
Rylan’s low chuckle reverberated against her hands.
He caught her wrist, draping it over his shoulder before dipping to kiss the curve of her neck.
“I know you’re sore,” he murmured against her skin, his lips brushing in a way that felt like both an apology and a tease. “No more until you’ve recovered.”
Natalie let out a breathy sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’m not sure I’d survive another round.”
He grinned against her neck. “Three days wasn’t that much.”
She pulled back to look at him, one brow arching. “Three days of what I’m pretty sure qualifies as an Olympic event? Yeah, it was that much.”
They’d paused occasionally to grab food, but it had always ended the same—back in his bedroom, tangled in sheets and each other.
Between the marathon sex sessions, they’d talked, laughed until their sides ached, shared wine, stolen bites of dessert from each other’s plates.
And with every stolen moment, she’d fallen harder for him.
“I need to work,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“No, you don’t,” he countered easily, kissing her again before she could pull away. “Stay here with me and let me take care of you.”
Natalie snorted. “Not gonna happen.”
“Why not?” He asked it casually, but his eyes glinted with challenge.
Turning, she grabbed the shampoo and began lathering her hair. “Because I love my job. I love creating spaces for people that work better, look better, fit each client’s lifestyle better.”
“Okay, so work,” he said, his tone dipping into a playful purr, “but work from here. Move in with me.”
She laughed, the sound echoing off the tile. “Also not gonna happen.”
Rylan stepped closer, hands settling on her hips. The heat of him seeped through her skin, and her pulse kicked up a notch. “Why not?” His voice was lighter now, but his gaze was steady, searching.
Natalie’s teasing faltered. She hesitated under the weight of his question, the truth pressing heavy in her throat. “Because I…” She stalled again, dropping her gaze to his collarbone. Finally, she exhaled. “Because that would make me vulnerable.”
His brow furrowed, clearly misunderstanding. “I’ll transfer ownership of the house to you,” he offered, dead serious—as if that solved everything.
Her startled laugh rang out. “No.”
“Why not?” he pressed, ducking under the spray to rinse his hair.
She could feel his hands in her hair a moment later, working the shampoo out with a gentle precision that made her chest ache.
“Because you’re not gifting me a house,” she said, her tone incredulous.
“If it would make you feel safer living here, then why not?” His voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact, like he was suggesting takeout instead of rewriting the boundaries of their relationship.
Natalie’s heart squeezed at the mix of sweetness and absurdity. If only he understood—this wasn’t about safety or money. This was about loving him so much that she feared the fall when it ended.
Instead of trying to explain what she didn’t have the courage to say, she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him, letting her lips linger. “I’m starving,” she murmured before reaching for the conditioner. “Will you make me something to eat?”
“Yes,” he replied softly, his hands trailing down her sides before reaching for the soap. “You know I love to feed you.” His dark eyes glimmered with quiet intent. “But we’re not done with this conversation.”
Natalie didn’t argue. She focused on rinsing her hair, trying not to notice the subtle tension in his shoulders. For now, she let it go.
Later, wrapped in a fluffy robe, she rummaged through the bag of clothes someone had retrieved from her house. “Last clean shirt,” she muttered.
“I’ll take you shopping,” Rylan announced, emerging from his dressing room as he tugged a tee-shirt over his head.
“I have plenty of clothes at home, Rylan,” she said firmly, snapping her bra into place. She pressed her palm against his chest, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I don’t need new clothes. I just need to go home and get more of mine.”
“You wouldn’t need to leave if you’d just move in with me.”
Before she could counter, the doorbell rang.
“Saved by the bell,” she quipped, hoping to nudge the moment back toward lightness.
He muttered something under his breath and moved toward the kitchen with an easy stride. “Tom answers the door for security reasons. What do you want for breakfast?”
Natalie tugged on a stretchy red top, grateful for the way it disguised the bruises along her arm. “Frittata,” she said, her tone making it a dare more than a request.
One of his brows lifted, the faintest ghost of a smirk curving his mouth. “Thirty minutes.” He turned to go, tossing over his shoulder, “And leave your hair down.”
She snorted, grabbing an elastic anyway and twisting her hair into a loose bun. He’d pull it free the moment he saw it—he always did—but a delicious little thrill curled through her at the thought.
Makeup finished, she padded downstairs, ready to either lend a hand or sip coffee while he cooked.
But she stopped short at the sight waiting in the kitchen.
Two tall men stood by the island—both immaculately dressed, both radiating a quiet authority that seemed to settle over the room like a pressure drop before a storm.
Rylan looked up from the stove, and his face softened the moment he saw her.
“You’re late,” he teased, warmth threading through the words.
Turning off the burner, he came around the island and took her hand in his, the gesture casual on the surface but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent: she was his.
“Dad, Uncle Khal, this is Natalie Gibbons.”
Natalie froze. One of the men looked faintly familiar, and then it clicked. Her jaw dropped. “Your Highness!” she blurted before she could stop herself.
She tried to slip her hand from Rylan’s, but his fingers tightened, lacing with hers in a subtle lock that told her she wasn’t going anywhere.
Her bare feet suddenly felt too conspicuous. She could imagine exactly what she looked like—coming down the stairs, hair pinned up in defiance of his request, wearing clothes that had clearly come from a hastily packed overnight bag. Heat climbed up her neck.
Khal’s sharp gaze flicked over her, assessing. Rylan’s father studied her with a measured calm that was somehow more unnerving. The silence stretched, weighted, until Rylan’s father inclined his head slightly.
“Ms. Gibbons,” Sheik Amit el Sandir said in a deep, even voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Natalie swallowed. “The pleasure is mine, Your Highness.”
Her eyes darted between the two men—both tall, both striking—but Rylan still edged them out in height. And in muscle. And in… well, every other category she wasn’t about to admit out loud.
“Dad, stop,” Rylan said, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her back against his chest. His tone was easy, but the hold was firm, a quiet anchor in the unfamiliar tension. “They’re not usually this obnoxious.”
“Is she the one?” Uncle Khal’s voice cut through the low hum of the kitchen—calm, but with the kind of weight that made the question feel like it had already been answered.
“Yep,” Rylan said without hesitation, as if there was nothing to discuss.
Natalie’s heart skipped. The one? Her lips parted, but under the combined weight of three very different but equally commanding presences, she shut them again.
“When are you going to tell your mother?” Khal asked, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth, though his eyes stayed sharp.
“Soon. Not today,” Rylan replied smoothly. His gaze dipped to Natalie, softening for her in contrast to the knife-edge tone he used with the other two. “And never, if you two don’t stop trying to intimidate her.”
Natalie felt a flicker of gratitude at his protective tone, but it didn’t erase the weight of the moment. Rylan kissed the top of her head, a warm gesture that did little to shield her from the scrutiny of the two men.
“Why don’t you get some coffee?” he murmured, guiding her toward the counter before crossing to a closet. He pulled out a carefully wrapped rectangular object and returned to the men. “This is what you came for, I suspect.”
“A father can’t come to visit his son?” Sheik Amit asked mildly, though the razor-sharp glint in his eyes made Natalie’s pulse kick. He didn’t just look at people—he assessed them, as if measuring how they might be used… or discarded.
Rylan rolled his eyes, but Natalie could feel the tension under the casual gesture. “I would have thought you’d be too busy with your new grandson to drop by unannounced,” he said, tone light on the surface but with an edge that suggested a history of clashes.
He returned to her side, his hand on her shoulder—steady, but subtly steering her farther from the two men. She didn’t miss the slight pressure in his grip, as if reminding her to keep calm.
“Is she the one who got rid of that awful sofa?” Sheik Khal asked suddenly, his deep voice breaking the silence. There was humor there, but it was the kind that could disappear in an instant—like the glint of a blade catching the light.
Rylan chuckled, a brief crack in the tension. “Yeah. We were supposed to head out a few days ago to replace it, but someone attacked Natalie that morning.”
Natalie nearly choked on her coffee. “Attacked?” she sputtered, coughing as her eyes flicked between the three men.
“It was an accident,” she argued quickly, but the word faltered when she caught their faces. Khal’s faint smirk vanished. Amit’s gaze sharpened, and the air seemed to thicken, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.
“You have everything in place?” Amit asked Rylan, his tone even but carrying an authority that made her stomach knot.
“Still working on it,” Rylan replied, clipped.
Natalie’s confusion boiled over. She set her coffee down with a loud clink, folding her arms and fixing Rylan with a glare. “What have you kept from me?” she demanded.
A low, almost identical chuckle came from both Amit and Khal—not amused, but dark, as if they already knew the answer and were simply waiting for Rylan to confirm it.
Rylan sighed, leaning back against the counter, mirroring her stance.
“It wasn’t an accident.” His voice was steady, but the words carried a weight that made the hair at her nape rise.
“The vehicle that hit you sped ahead to position itself. Tom has traffic footage showing a blue sedan deliberately ramming you.”
Her breath caught. The room seemed to shrink as she turned toward the older men. Both were utterly still, their expressions carved from stone.
“Someone is trying to kill her?” Amit asked, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the silence.
“It’s starting to look that way,” Rylan said, his tone flat—yet under it, Natalie heard the same dangerous edge she’d just heard in his father’s voice. “Add in all the other instances, and…” he let his voice fade away as her face drained of color.
Natalie shook her head, disbelief and fear tangling in her chest. “But… it was just a glitter bomb,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “And… they fluffed my pillows.”
Rylan’s jaw tightened as he glanced at his father and uncle even as he pulled her into his arms, protecting her from the world. “It started with someone breaking into her home and rearranging things. Flowers left in a vase. Pillows fluffed. The police dismissed it as female hysteria.”
Both older men scowled, their expressions hard enough to chill the air.
“I thought that attitude died with the bra burnings,” Sheik Khal muttered, his voice low and dangerous.
“Oh, it’s alive and well,” Rylan grumbled, his tone sharp. Then he looked down at Natalie, and his voice softened. “Then came the glitter bomb at her office. And someone tried to run her down in a parking garage.”
Her knees weakened, and before she could sway, Rylan tightened his arms, holding her tight, as if his body alone could shield her from every threat.
“That’s two attempts on your life,” he murmured, the words vibrating with restrained fury. “Tom’s working on finding out who’s behind this.”
Before she could respond, Tom strode into the kitchen, his expression grim. “I think I might have something.”
Rylan’s grip on her tightened as Tom set a tablet on the counter. “Brace yourself,” he warned. “This won’t be easy to watch.”
Natalie drew in a breath and leaned forward. The traffic camera footage played—her SUV rolling toward a red light. For a few seconds, nothing. Then, just as the light turned green and Natalie’s vehicle moved forward, a blue sedan shot into the intersection and slammed into her.
She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Memories jolted back in jagged flashes—pain, confusion, the blurred figure walking away. On-screen, the driver stepped out: blond hair, high heels, dark sunglasses… but the stride was wrong.
“That’s a man,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “In a wig. But at the time, I thought…” She trailed off, unable to finish.
Tom paused the video, tapping the screen. “The car was rented using a fake name, fake license, fake name on the credit card. But the card traces back to a company called Raven Industries. Mean anything to you?”
Natalie shook her head. “No. Never heard of it.”
Tom’s jaw flexed. “We’re coordinating with the police. They’ve opened a criminal investigation.”
“Good,” Rylan said, the single word clipped, final. Then he glanced toward the oven, as if determined to break the crushing tension before it could settle in too deep. “Right now, it’s time to eat.”
He pulled two golden frittatas from the oven, steam curling up into the air, filling the room with buttery, savory warmth. “Natalie, will you grab the plates? There’s a bowl of fruit in the fridge.”
Grateful for something—anything—to do, she nodded, though the weight in her chest didn’t lift.
A few minutes later, she sat at the counter with Rylan and his family, the scent of roasted vegetables and eggs between them. She forced herself to focus on the warmth of the food, the clink of forks against plates, the safe, ordinary rhythm of breakfast.
But the thought lodged deep in her mind, immovable and cold.
Someone wanted her dead.
And she still had no idea who—or why.