Chapter 2
two
. . .
I follow him into the building like a ghost, leaving puddles of rainwater on the pristine marble floor.
The security guard at the desk nods respectfully, not even questioning my presence beside this commanding stranger, as if the man I'm with exists beyond the usual rules of society.
Maybe he does. Everything about him radiates power—from the sharp cut of his jaw to the way the elevator attendant keeps his eyes down when we enter.
I should be terrified. I am terrified. But there's something else too, something I can't name that makes me stay when every instinct screams at me to run.
The elevator ascends silently, each floor lighting up as we pass it.
I stand as far from him as the small space allows, pressing myself into the corner, watching his reflection in the mirrored walls.
He doesn't look at me, but I feel his awareness like a physical touch—as if even with his eyes forward, he's cataloging every breath I take, every tremor that passes through my chilled body.
"You're safe now," he says suddenly, his voice low enough that the attendant can't hear him.
I don't answer. Safety is a concept I barely remember.
The elevator stops at the very top floor—penthouse, the illuminated button reads—and the doors slide open to reveal a short hallway with a single door at the end.
He steps out, then turns to me, waiting.
For a moment, I hesitate. I could stay in this elevator, ride it back down, disappear into the rainy night.
But to what end? To freeze on the streets? To eventually crawl back to Raymond and whatever horror he has planned for me?
I step out of the elevator, and something in the man's eyes flares hot before cooling again to that measured, controlled gaze. He leads me to the door, presses his palm against a scanner beside it, and pushes it open.
"After you," he says, and again, it's a command wrapped in courtesy.
I step into his domain, and my breath catches in my throat.
The penthouse is the most beautiful space I've ever seen—all clean lines and open space, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city lights refracted through the rain.
The furniture is sleek and minimal, all in shades of gray and black and white.
An enormous fireplace dominates one wall, flames already dancing behind glass, filling the room with warmth and golden light.
I stand frozen just inside the door, suddenly acutely aware of how badly I'm dripping on his perfectly polished floor.
"I—I'm sorry," I stammer, looking down at the puddle forming around my feet. "I shouldn't—"
"Hush," he interrupts, closing the door behind us. The sound of the lock engaging makes my heart skip, and I have to remind myself that I chose to come here. I can leave. Can't I?
He moves past me, his shoulder brushing mine, sending an electric jolt through my rain-numbed body. I watch as he shrugs out of his coat, revealing a crisp white shirt that clings to broad shoulders and a lean waist. He drapes the coat over a chair, then turns to look at me.
Really look at me, in a way that makes heat flood my cheeks despite the cold. His eyes travel from my soaked hair to my ruined shoes, assessing, almost...possessive.
"You're freezing," he states, as if making a clinical observation. "And those clothes need to come off before you catch pneumonia."
I wrap my arms tighter around myself, a defensive gesture that makes his lips quirk in what might be amusement.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, reading my fear correctly. "If I wanted to, I wouldn't have brought you to my home."
"I don't even know your name," I whisper, my voice sounding small in the cavernous space.
Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps, that this is my concern.
"Sutton," he says after a moment. "And you are?"
I hesitate. If I give him my real name and Raymond comes looking...
"Cecily," I say anyway, because lying feels pointless somehow. As if this man—Sutton—would see through any falsehood.
He nods once, as if confirming something to himself. "Cecily," he repeats, my name sounding different in his mouth, weighted with something I don't understand. "Stay here."
He disappears down a hallway, leaving me standing awkwardly in his living room.
I should move, should look for a phone, should do something other than stand here shivering, but my body refuses to cooperate.
The warmth of the room is seeping into me slowly, making me aware of just how cold I am, just how exhausted.
Sutton returns carrying a large, fluffy towel and what looks like a bundle of clothes. He approaches me slowly, as if I'm a wild animal he doesn't want to startle.
"Here," he says, holding out the towel. "Dry yourself."
I reach for it, and our fingers brush—a brief, electric contact that sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold. I clutch the towel to my chest like a shield.
"Thank you," I manage.
He doesn't move away. Instead, he reaches out and takes the corner of the towel from my grip, then slowly, deliberately, lifts it to my hair. I freeze as he begins to gently dry the soaking strands, his movements surprisingly tender.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.
His hands pause for the briefest moment before continuing their gentle ministrations. "Because you were standing in the rain looking lost, and I don't like seeing beautiful things ruined."
The words send a confusing tangle of emotions through me—flattery, wariness, a strange flutter in my stomach. He thinks I'm beautiful? Even like this, bedraggled and desperate?
"I can't pay you back," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I don't have any money."
His hands still completely this time, and when I risk a glance up at his face, there's something dark and hungry in his expression that makes my breath catch.
"I'm not interested in your money, Cecily."
The way he says it—low, almost a growl—makes it clear that he's interested in something else entirely, and that realization should frighten me. Instead, it sends a hot pulse of something forbidden through my veins.
He steps back suddenly, as if needing to put distance between us.
"The bathroom is down the hall, first door on the right.
These should fit well enough." He holds out the clothes—what looks like a soft sweater and drawstring pants.
"There's a robe on the hook. Take a hot shower, change, then come back out here. "
I take the clothes, careful not to let our fingers touch again. "And then what?"
"And then we talk."
I nod, clutching the bundle to my chest, and make my way down the hall he indicated.
The bathroom is as luxurious as the rest of the penthouse—all marble and glass, with a shower big enough for four people and deep soaking tub positioned to take advantage of the city view.
I lock the door behind me, though I doubt a lock would stop a man like Sutton if he decided to come in.
The hot water is the closest thing to heaven I've felt in years.
I stand under the spray until my skin pinks and the cold finally leaves my bones.
I use his shampoo, his soap, surrounding myself in his scent—something expensive and masculine that makes my head swim a little.
When I finally step out, I feel human again, though the gravity of my situation hasn't lessened.
I'm alone in a strange man's penthouse. A man who looks at me like he wants to devour me whole.
And yet, I don't feel the fear I should. Despite everything—despite running from one controlling man only to end up with another—there's something about Sutton that makes me feel...safe. Protected. It makes no sense, but my instincts have rarely led me wrong.
The clothes he gave me are soft and warm and far too big, but the drawstring on the pants keeps them from falling off entirely. I roll up the sleeves of the sweater, inhaling the scent embedded in the fabric. His scent.
When I finally emerge, my wet clothes bundled awkwardly in my arms, I find him in the kitchen area, his back to me as he does something at the counter. The domestic scene is so at odds with his powerful presence that it stops me in my tracks.
"Put those down anywhere," he says without turning around. "I'll have them cleaned."
I drop the bundle on a nearby chair, then hover uncertainly, unsure of what to do with myself in this strange man's space.
He turns then, holding two steaming mugs. "Tea," he explains, extending one toward me. "To warm you from the inside out."
I approach cautiously and take the mug, our fingers brushing again. This time, I'm sure the jolt between us isn't my imagination—his eyes darken, his jaw tightens.
"Thank you," I murmur, cupping the mug in both hands, letting the heat seep into my palms.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch facing the fireplace.
I obey, perching on the edge of the cushion, back straight, as if ready to bolt at any moment. He sits on the opposite end—close enough to reach me if he wanted to, far enough to give me the illusion of space.
"Why were you running?" he asks after a moment of silence.
I stare into my tea, watching the steam curl upward. "How do you know I was running?"
"People don't stand in the rain at midnight because they're out for a pleasant stroll."
I lift the mug to my lips, buying time. How much can I tell him? How much dare I reveal?
"My stepfather," I finally say, the words like razors in my throat. "He... wanted me to do something I couldn't do."
Sutton's eyes narrow, his fingers tightening around his mug. "What kind of something?"
I shake my head, unable to voice the ugly truth. "It doesn't matter. I just couldn't stay there anymore."
"And you have nowhere else to go."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. No family, no friends he doesn't control. Nothing but the clothes on my back."
He nods, as if my answer confirms some decision he's already made. "You'll stay here."
Again, not a question. Not even an offer. A statement of fact.
"I—I can't," I stammer, though the thought of going back out into the night makes my stomach clench. "I don't even know you."
"You know enough," he counters, setting his mug down on the coffee table.
"You know I could have left you in the rain.
You know I've given you shelter, warmth, dry clothes.
You know I haven't hurt you." He pauses, his eyes locking with mine.
"You know, somewhere in that survival instinct that made you run tonight, that I'm your best option. "
He's right, and that terrifies me more than anything else about this situation. I have nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. And despite every warning bell ringing in my head, something about this man makes me trust him.
"Why would you let me stay?" I ask. "What do you want from me?"
He moves then, sliding closer to me on the couch until our knees almost touch. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out and brushes a strand of damp hair away from my face. His fingers linger against my cheek, warm and slightly rough.
"Nothing you aren't willing to give," he says softly, but there's an undercurrent to his words that makes my heart race. "For now, I just want you to rest. To feel safe."
His hand drops to my shoulder, then slides down my arm, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When he reaches my hand, he takes the mug from my unresisting fingers and sets it beside his own.
"No one will ever hurt you again," he promises, his voice low and fierce, his eyes burning with an intensity that should frighten me but somehow only makes me feel more secure. "Not while you're mine."
Mine. The word echoes in my mind, setting off a cascade of conflicting emotions. I should protest. I should clarify that I'm not his, that I never will be. That I ran from one man's claim of ownership only to end up hearing similar words from another's lips.
But I don't. Because in this moment, with the fire crackling and the rain beating against the windows and Sutton's hand warm around mine, being his feels like salvation.