Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
LUCA
I should’ve kept running.
Six kilometers wasn’t enough.
Not with the way my head had been lately.
Not with her in our space—sweetening the air, softening the house, smiling like she didn’t see the damage behind our eyes.
I took the back door into the Crow house. I was halfway to the stairs when I heard voices from the kitchen.
Cameron. Jax.
They didn’t see me — or didn’t care.
“Bro, I’m telling you. She’s be worth it ,” Jax was saying. “Saw her stretching in the lounge the other day. Those leggings—I swear to God.”
“I’d marry her just for the way her ass looks in those skirts,” Cameron muttered. “Dynasty daughter, trained smile, but that mouth? I’d risk a real fight with Caplans and the Crows just to?—”
The chair scraped before I knew I was moving.
I walked into the room just far enough for them to see me.
Silence .
Jax straightened. “Luca. We didn’t know you were back.”
“Clearly.”
“Just talking.”
I didn’t respond.
Didn’t need to.
The look I gave them said enough .
Their eyes dropped.
Jax grabbed his bag, muttered something about a meeting.
They cleared out fast.
I stood in the kitchen alone, fists clenched at my sides.
I wasn’t angry they noticed her.
I was angry that I had .
I should’ve shut it all down the moment she moved in.
Should’ve told her to keep her pink blanket, her warm cookies, her soft-spoken politeness far from us.
Instead, she kept invading.
Quietly. Beautifully.
Like her existence wasn’t setting everything off-balance.
Still irritated, I climbed the stairs two at a time.
I needed a shower.
Needed silence .
I stepped into the room?—
And stopped.
She was bent over on the floor.
Legs wide.
Palms pressed to the mat.
Back arched .
Downward dog.
And all I could see was her ass.
Tight yoga pants.
Sports bra.
Hair in a messy bun.
Skin flushed .
Breathing shallow.
She didn’t hear me right away, and when she did?—
“Oh!” she gasped, straightening too fast, cheeks already red. “Sorry—I didn’t think anyone was back yet. I’ll go downstairs, give you the room.”
She was flustered. Genuinely embarrassed.
She reached for her towel like it would hide something, already halfway to the door.
I grunted. “You’re fine.”
She froze. “Are you sure? I was just finishing up?—”
“I said it’s fine.”
She nodded, tight and flustered. “Okay.”
But I didn’t move.
And neither did she.
I turned toward the ensuite, jaw tight, pulse louder than it should’ve been.
Because she smelled good.
Because she looked good.
Because I noticed the way her shirt clung to her curves.
Because I hated that I was the one who caught her mid-stretch and still wanted to look again .
And worst of all?
She smiled at me when she left.
That soft, sweet smile.
Like I hadn’t just undressed her with my eyes for a split second.
I stepped into the shower and turned the water too cold .
The room was quiet.
The fire burned low, casting long shadows across the floor .
I was lying back in bed, one arm behind my head, a book open on my chest.
I hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.
Bastion was scrolling his phone, but not really.
His gaze flicked toward the bathroom door every other minute.
We didn’t speak.
We didn’t have to .
It had become a pattern. A quiet, unspoken ritual.
Every night, she disappeared into the ensuite.
And every night, we waited .
Not on purpose.
Not officially.
But something about it — her — had rewired the air in this room.
The first night, she wore champagne satin .
Thin straps. Lace trim. A ribbon tied beneath her chest like a bow asking to be undone.
Bastion had dropped his water bottle when he saw her.
The second night, it was black . Thigh-length. Backless .
We both watched her walk across the room like she didn’t feel our eyes.
She did, of course. She just smiled politely and climbed into bed.
Tonight, I didn’t know what color it would be.
But I’d already started ranking them in my head.
Pink was softest. Barely-there lace along the hem.
Blue brought out her eyes. Tight at the waist, with a delicate slit.
Ivory was the one she wore when she couldn’t sleep — pacing, pulling her hair up, baring too much shoulder with every movement.
And tonight ?
The water shut off.
Steam whispered beneath the doorframe.
Her shadow moved behind the fogged glass.
My hand curled tighter around the edge of my book.
Bastion didn’t move, but I saw it — the slight shift of his spine, the way his breathing changed.
He was waiting too.
The door opened.
She stepped out, drying her hair with a towel, her silk clinging to her.
Wine red.
Low neckline. Lace paneling down the sides.
Thin straps she had to keep tugging back into place.
She looked soft.
Fresh.
Untouchable.
And she smiled .
“Goodnight,” she said sweetly, walking to her bed like we weren’t both watching her every step.
Bastion cleared his throat. Rolled onto his side, facing the wall.
I didn’t say a word.
She climbed beneath her blanket, fluffing the pillow like it didn’t feel like the center of the storm.
And I turned a page I couldn’t read, pretending not to be counting the next color in my head .