4. Maura
MAURA
The first thing I notice is the absence. Not the unfamiliar ceiling or the sheets—though both of those register somewhere in the back of my sleep-fogged brain.
It's the empty space beside me that pulls me fully awake, the way my body registers the missing weight before my mind catches up.
The bed is massive. King-size, maybe bigger. I'm sprawled across Egyptian cotton that doesn't have a single pilled spot, in a room so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. But the indent in the pillow next to mine is empty, the sheets cool where his body should be.
My body aches in ways I've never experienced before. Between my thighs, there's a tender soreness that makes me shift carefully against the mattress.
My breasts feel different too—not the tight, painful fullness of engorgement, but a sensitivity that has nothing to do with milk production and everything to do with the memory of his mouth.
There's a looseness in my muscles I don't recognize, like I've been holding tension for twenty-one years and finally let go.
The bedside clock glows 4:00 AM in sharp red digits. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the world is that strange predawn gray where night hasn't quite given up but morning is threatening the horizon.
I should feel disoriented. A few hours ago I was crying on my couch in my apartment with a broken breast pump and an overdue electric bill. Now I'm naked in my stepfather's bed, surrounded by luxury I can't even properly process.
The thread count of these sheets probably exceeds my monthly income.
But instead of panic or regret or any of the emotions a reasonable person might feel after sleeping with their stepfather, there's something else entirely sitting in my chest. Something that feels suspiciously like wonder.
This man—this massive, tattooed, obsessive man who builds security empires and tracks people across cities—chose me. Not some polished socialite or corporate heiress. Not someone whose mother didn't steal a million dollars and disappear.
Me. The barista with galactorrhea and thrift store clothes and a refrigerator containing nothing but expired oat milk and hope.
He memorized my class schedule. He learned where I work. He watched me pump milk alone in my living room and instead of being disgusted, he showed up at my door when my equipment broke.
He told me he wanted to put a baby inside me, and when I asked what was stopping him, he kissed me like the world might end if he didn't.
The sheets rustle as I sit up, and the sound seems too loud in the enormous room. My reflection catches in the dark window—hair a disaster, makeup long gone, wearing absolutely nothing.
I look like exactly what I am: a college student who just lost her virginity to the most dangerous man she's ever met.
The strange thing is, I don't look afraid.
I grab the thin sheet and wrap it around myself, tucking it under my arms like the world's most expensive towel.
The hardwood floor is cool against my bare feet—real wood, not the warped laminate in my apartment that creaks with every step. Even the floor here is better quality than anything in my entire building.
The balcony door stands open, air drifting through it with the faint scent of grass and expensive landscaping. That's where he is. I can see his silhouette against the pre-dawn sky, leaning against the railing like he's keeping watch over his kingdom.
My feet carry me to the doorway. The girl from yesterday would have stayed in bed, would have waited for him to come back, would have pretended to be asleep rather than risk an awkward conversation.
But that girl seems very far away right now. That girl never had someone growl her name while he moved inside her. That girl never felt what it was like to be wanted so badly that a man confessed to stalking her without a trace of shame.
I step onto the balcony, and the night air hits my skin through the thin sheet. The grounds stretch out below us—manicured lawn, mature trees, gardens I can barely make out in the low light.
It's so quiet out here I can hear insects in the grass, the distant hum of highway traffic, the sound of my own breathing.
Mark turns when he hears me, or maybe he was already aware I was coming.
His face is unreadable in the dim light, but his body tells a different story.
He's wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that sit low on his hips, and for the first time tonight I get a full view of what I was too overwhelmed to properly catalog earlier.
The tattoos I saw on his forearms extend everywhere. Dark ink covers both arms completely—full sleeves that disappear under fabric at the wedding, now visible in their entirety.
They spread across his shoulders and down his chest, intricate designs that move when he moves. In the predawn light, they look like shadows painted directly onto his skin.
His build is exactly what I felt pressed against me earlier, but seeing it in open space makes my mouth go dry. Broad shoulders that could block doorways. Arms thick enough to make me feel delicate, which is not an adjective anyone has ever applied to me before.
A chest and torso that are pure solid muscle covered in dark ink, tapering down to lean hips and those sweatpants that reveal a strip of skin just above the waistband.
Heat pools low in my stomach, mixing with the soreness already there and creating a sensation I don't quite know how to process. Want tangled up with the evidence of what we already did.
My body's very clear vote for what it wants to happen next, despite the fact that I can barely walk without feeling the aftermath of the first time.
"You can't sleep?"
The words come out easier than they should. No hesitation, no careful consideration of whether I should speak first or wait for him to notice me. Just a simple question from a woman to a man at four in the morning, like this is normal, like we do this all the time.
His face shifts when he looks at me—not quite a smile, but something that might become one if he let it. "I've been dreaming of the moment I could take you home. So no, I can't sleep."
The honesty in his voice hits me like a physical thing. Not romantic or pretty, just blunt fact delivered in that careful, controlled tone that somehow makes everything he says land harder.
He's been fantasizing about having me here, in his house, in his bed. And now that it's real, the reality is keeping him awake.
Warmth spreads through my chest and lower, a flush that has nothing to do with the August air. I tighten the sheet around myself and step closer to the railing, close enough that the space between us feels deliberate rather than accidental.
"Well, that's either very romantic or mildly terrifying," I say, aiming for light but hearing something else creep into my voice. "I'm going with romantic since I'm currently wearing your sheet instead of running for the hills."
Something in his expression shifts—not quite amusement, but close. "Smart choice. The hills are pretty far from here, and you're not exactly dressed for hiking."
"Are you criticizing my outfit?" I glance down at the sheet, which barely covers the important bits. "This is designer bedding. Very high-end."
"The sheet looks better on you than it does on the bed."
The compliment is so matter-of-fact it takes me a moment to process it. No flowery language, no poetic metaphors. Just a simple observation delivered like he's commenting on the weather.
But the way he's looking at me when he says it—like he's memorizing the sight of me wrapped in his expensive fabric—makes my skin feel too warm.
"You know, most people save the stalking confession for at least the third date," I tell him, moving closer to lean against the railing beside him. "You really jumped straight to the deep end."
"Most people don't break into apartments to install surveillance equipment." His voice stays level, but there's something underneath it that might be humor. "I don't do things halfway."
"No kidding. I was expecting maybe dinner and a movie, not a full security system and a medical intervention."
"Would you have preferred dinner and a movie?"
The question catches me off guard, partly because of how seriously he asks it. Like he's actually considering whether he should have taken the conventional route, wooed me properly instead of confessing to months of obsessive watching.
"Honestly? No." The admission surprises me as much as it probably surprises him. "Dinner would have been nice, but I've never had anyone show up when I actually needed help. Even if the help came with a side of felony surveillance charges."
His mouth does something that might be the beginning of a smile. "No charges. I'm very good at what I do."
"Oh, that's reassuring. My stepfather, the professional stalker."
"Your stepfather who couldn't sleep because you're in his bed."
The shift in his voice is subtle but unmistakable—rougher, lower, like he's reminding both of us why we're standing on a balcony at four in the morning instead of sleeping off the most intense night of my life.
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.
My pulse kicks up, and I'm suddenly very aware of how little I'm wearing. How close we're standing. How easy it would be for him to reach over and tug at the sheet, or for me to lean into the warmth radiating from his bare skin.
"Is that what you're calling yourself now?" My voice comes out more breathless than I intended. "My stepfather?"
"What would you prefer I call myself?"
There's something dangerous in the question, in the way he turns slightly to face me instead of the grounds below. The light catches the gray of his eyes, and I can see the intensity there that I felt earlier but couldn't quite see in the dark.
"I don't know." I meet his gaze instead of looking away, which feels like its own small revolution. "What do you call a man who stalks you and then shows up to manually milk you when your equipment breaks?"
"Convenient."
The word is so dry, so perfectly deadpan, that I laugh before I can stop myself.