Chapter 3
three
. . .
I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows, my body sinking into a mattress so soft it feels like I'm floating on a cloud.
For one blissful moment, I exist in peaceful confusion—not quite remembering where I am, but feeling safer than I have in years.
Then it all comes rushing back: Raymond's threat, my desperate flight, the rain, the intimidating stranger who brought me to his penthouse.
Sutton. Even thinking his name sends a shiver down my spine that I don't fully understand.
I sit up slowly, taking in the guest room he led me to last night after our conversation by the fire.
Everything around me speaks of wealth beyond anything I've ever known—the sheets alone probably cost more than everything I own.
Last night feels like a fever dream. After our tense exchange on the couch, Sutton had suddenly stood, as if needing distance between us.
"You need rest," he'd said, his voice rough around the edges.
He'd shown me to this room—this beautiful, impersonal space—and left me with a brief, "Sleep well, Cecily.
We'll talk more tomorrow." The click of the door closing behind him had felt both disappointing and relieving.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet sinking into plush carpet. The borrowed clothes I slept in—his clothes—smell like him, a scent I'm already starting to recognize. It clings to my skin, marking me in some primitive way that should disturb me more than it does.
What am I doing here? The question pounds in my head as reality reasserts itself.
I ran from one dangerous man only to put myself in the hands of another.
Because Sutton is dangerous—I sensed that from the moment I saw him.
The difference is in the nature of the danger.
Raymond threatened me with cruelty and degradation.
Sutton threatens me with... something else.
Something that pulls at me even as it terrifies me.
But I can't stay. I shouldn't stay. Last night I was desperate, cold, without options.
In the light of day, I need to think clearly.
I need to get as far away from Raymond as possible, somewhere he can't find me.
And I need to do it before I become any more entangled with the enigmatic man whose house I'm in.
I look around for my clothes from yesterday, but they're nowhere to be seen.
Instead, on a chair by the window, I find what looks like brand new items—simple jeans, a soft t-shirt, even underwear with tags still attached.
My skin flushes hot at the thought of Sutton selecting these items for me, but I push the feeling aside. I need to get dressed and go.
The clothes fit perfectly, which is unsettling in its own way. How did he know my size? I finger the silky material of the bra, the cotton of the t-shirt—expensive, like everything else in this place. I find my own shoes by the door, now dry, and slip them on.
I open the bedroom door cautiously, listening for any sign of Sutton. The penthouse is quiet. Maybe he's still asleep. Maybe he's already left for work. The latter would make my escape easier, though part of me feels guilty about repaying his kindness with disappearance.
Not guilty enough to stay, though.
I pad silently down the hallway, taking in details I was too overwhelmed to notice last night.
The walls are adorned with what must be original artwork—stark, modern pieces that convey power and control.
No photographs, I realize. No personal touches that might reveal something about the man who lives here.
It's a beautiful space, but impersonal, like an extremely high-end hotel suite.
The living room is bathed in morning light, the city spread out below like a miniature model through those floor-to-ceiling windows. I pause for a moment, taking in the view that most people will never see—the world from the perspective of someone who stands above it all.
My attention shifts to the front door, my exit point. I move toward it, each step feeling both like freedom and betrayal. I'll find a shelter, I tell myself. I'll figure out a plan. I'm young and capable and determined not to go back to Raymond. I'll make it work somehow.
I reach the door and wrap my hand around the handle, drawing a deep breath. This is it. Back to the real world, back to having no one to rely on but myself.
I turn the handle and pull. Nothing happens.
Frowning, I try again. The door doesn't budge. Is it locked? I look for a deadbolt, a chain, any obvious security measure, but see nothing that would prevent the door from opening.
"It won't open for you."
The voice behind me makes me jump, my heart leaping into my throat.
I spin around to find Sutton standing at the entrance to the hallway, watching me with an intensity that pins me to the spot.
He's dressed in what must be casual clothes for him—dark jeans and a gray henley that does nothing to hide the powerful build of his body.
His hair is slightly damp, as if he's just showered, and his feet are bare against the hardwood floor.
"What do you mean, it won't open for me?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the thundering of my pulse.
He takes a step toward me, then another, moving with that fluid, predatory grace that marked him last night. "The security system is biometric. It only responds to my fingerprints, my retinal scan."
"You locked me in?" The words come out higher than I intended, panic rising in my chest.
"I secured my home," he corrects, still advancing. "There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
He stops a few feet away from me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, far enough that I don't feel immediately threatened.
"Why were you trying to leave, Cecily?" he asks, his voice deceptively soft.
"Because I can't stay here." I press my back against the door, as if I might somehow melt through it if I try hard enough. "I'm grateful for last night, for the shelter and the clothes and... everything. But I need to go."
"Where?" he challenges, taking another step closer. "Back to your stepfather? To the streets? To some shelter where he might find you the moment he starts looking?"
"That's not your concern."
"I made it my concern the moment I brought you here." Another step. Now he's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean scent of his soap. "You don't walk out on me."
The words send an electric jolt through me—not just fear, but something darker, more primal. A part of me responds to his tone, to the command implicit in his stance. It's a response I've never felt before, not even with boys my own age who've tried to flirt or seduce me.
"I don't belong to you," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
His lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Don't you?" His hand comes up, not touching me but bracing against the door beside my head, caging me in. "You came to me, Cecily. You followed me into my home. You slept under my roof, wore my clothes, accepted my protection."
"That doesn't give you the right to keep me prisoner!"
"Is that what you think you are? My prisoner?
" His other hand comes up, mirroring the first, so that I'm completely boxed in by his arms, his body a wall of muscle and heat before me.
"If I wanted a prisoner, I'd have locked you in that bedroom.
I'd have taken your clothes, taken away any illusion of choice. "
My breath comes faster now, my chest rising and falling rapidly. We're not touching, but it feels like every nerve ending in my body is aware of him, straining toward him.
"Then what do you want?" I whisper.
His eyes—those dark, fathomless eyes—drop to my lips for an instant before returning to mine. "I want you to choose to stay."
"Why?"
"Because from the moment I saw you standing in the rain, I knew you were meant to be here. With me."
The intensity of his words, the absolute conviction in his tone, should send me running for the hills. Instead, it roots me to the spot, a strange warmth unfurling in my belly.
"You don't even know me," I say weakly.
"I know enough." One of his hands drops from the door to my face, his fingers feather-light as they trace my cheekbone.
"I know you're running from something that terrifies you.
I know you're stronger than you realize, to have made it this far.
I know that when I touch you, your pupils dilate and your breath catches and your body leans into mine, even as your mind tells you to be afraid. "
As if to prove his point, his thumb brushes over my lower lip, and I can't stop the small gasp that escapes me, or the way my body sways slightly toward him.
"Stay," he says, and it's both a command and a plea. "Let me protect you. Let me give you the safety you deserve while you figure out your next move."
"And what do you get out of it?" I ask, because nothing in life is free. Raymond taught me that lesson well.
Sutton's hand slides from my face to my neck, his palm resting lightly against my throat, his thumb tracing the rapid pulse at the base of my jaw.
"The pleasure of your company," he says, his voice dropping to a register that makes heat pool low in my stomach.
"Nothing more than you're willing to give. "
There it is again—that careful phrasing that promises restraint while hinting at desire. He wants me; that much is clear. But unlike Raymond, he's not forcing the issue. At least not physically.
"And if I say no? If I insist on leaving?"
His expression hardens for an instant, something dangerous flashing in his eyes before he masks it. "Then I'll have a car take you wherever you want to go, with enough money to keep you comfortable for a month. But I don't think that's what you want."
He's right, and that knowledge is as terrifying as anything else about this situation. I don't want to leave. Despite the red flags, despite the warnings blaring in my head, I feel drawn to this man in a way I can't explain.
"Why would you do that for a stranger?" I press, needing to understand his motivation.
His hand moves from my throat to cup the back of my neck, firm yet gentle. "Because you're not a stranger, Cecily. Not anymore."
With that, he closes the remaining distance between us, his chest pressing against mine, his powerful body pinning me to the door.
I should feel trapped. I should feel afraid.
And I do, but it's not the same fear I felt with Raymond.
This is different—a heady mixture of anticipation and desire and yes, fear, but fear of what I might become in this man's hands rather than fear of harm.
"Tell me to move away," he murmurs, his lips a breath from mine. "Tell me you want to leave, and I will step back. I will let you go."
I open my mouth, but the words don't come. Because the truth is, I don't want him to move away. I don't want to leave. The safety I feel in his presence is addictive after years of walking on eggshells around Raymond.
"I don't understand this," I whisper instead, my hands coming up to rest hesitantly against his chest, feeling the solid strength of him beneath my palms. "I don't understand why I'm not running from you."
His lips curve in a smile that's equal parts triumph and tenderness. "Because you recognize what I recognized last night. That we are meant for each other, in ways neither of us fully comprehends yet."
His hand slides from my neck to tangle in my hair, tipping my head back further. "Stay," he says again, and this time it's definitely a command. "Stay with me, Cecily."
And God help me, I nod. Because the way he cages me in, the control he exerts over my body and my environment—it's nothing like when Raymond did it. This feels like protection rather than possession. Like safety rather than imprisonment.
Or maybe that's just what I need to tell myself to justify the inexplicable pull I feel toward this dangerous, compelling man.
"I'll stay," I whisper, and the words feel like surrender and victory all at once. "For now."
The smile that spreads across his face is dark and satisfied, a predator who has successfully cornered his prey. But there's something else there too—a flash of genuine pleasure that makes my heart turn over in my chest.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
He steps back suddenly, releasing me from the cage of his body, and I feel both relief and disappointment at the loss of contact.
"Breakfast," he says, as if the intense moment we just shared never happened. "You must be hungry."
And just like that, I follow him into the kitchen, knowing that something fundamental has shifted between us. I've agreed to stay, to place myself under his protection and his control. What that will mean in the hours and days to come, I can't begin to imagine.
But as I watch him move confidently around his kitchen, I realize that for the first time in years, I'm not afraid of what tomorrow might bring. And that, more than anything else, tells me I've made the right choice—or at least the only choice I could live with.