Chapter 2. Beneath His Gaze

Rae:

He doesn’t offer his hand.

Just turns and walks. Like he knows I’ll follow.

And I do.

His car waits at the edge of the garden like it’s been summoned by some dark god—sleek, black, purring low like a living thing. It gleams beneath the moonlight, a rare beast born for speed and silence. The kind of machine that doesn't belong on roads, only on battlegrounds and nightmares.

He opens the passenger door with effortless grace. Doesn’t say a word.

Just waits. Watching.

Something in his gaze pins me. My heart stumbles in my chest.

Don’t get in the car.

My mind whispers it. My instincts scream it.

But I do.

Inside, the world shifts.

It smells like him—leather, smoke, the faintest trace of something wild. Dangerous.

The seats cradle me like they were made to.

The door shuts with a soft thud. Final.

He drives. Silent. Commanding.

No music. No destination offered. Just road. Shadows. Power.

“We’re going to my villa,” he says eventually, voice smooth like aged whiskey but cold like stone.

I nod.

What else can I do?

The city fades behind us. Neon gives way to darkness. The silence is thick with tension, with questions I don’t ask.

His hand stays firm on the wheel. His jaw clenched. Eyes forward.

But I feel him.

Watching me without turning.

Feeling me without touching.

There’s a storm beneath his calm—one I sense more with every mile.

By the time we turn into a long driveway flanked by trees and shadows, my pulse is a war drum.

The gate opens like it recognizes him.

The villa beyond it is stunning—grand, modern, haunting. Marble and glass stretch into the night sky like it’s trying to escape the world.

He parks. Steps out.

Comes around to my door.

The moment I stand, I stumble.

He catches me. Instinctively. Firm hands on my waist.

His body heat swallows mine.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

It’s the first time his voice has gentled.

He leads me in through massive double doors that swing open on their own.

Inside, everything is cream stone and black shadows. Understated opulence. Cold. Too perfect to be welcoming.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t show me around.

Just moves forward.

And like before—

I follow.

The hall narrows. Light softens.

A single room glows at the end.

Firelight flickers. Curtains drawn. The air heavier now. Anticipation coils in my stomach.

He stops in front of the doorway. Turns.

"You feel it too," he says. Not a question.

I nod.

Because I do.

God help me, I do.

He steps closer. His hand lifts, tracing a path down my cheek, over my jaw, pausing at the base of my neck.

I shudder.

He watches it like a man watching the first drop of rain before a flood.

Then—

He moves.

His mouth crashes against mine. Hot. Demanding.

There’s no hesitation. No gentleness.

Only hunger.

His hands thread through my hair, tugging me closer. My body arches into him.

My dress slips from my shoulders. He doesn’t help it fall—he tears it.

And somehow, I love the sound.

We stumble into the room. Into heat and firelight and shadows that feel alive.

He pins me to the wall, mouth trailing fire down my throat.

His hands explore like they’re mapping me—memorizing, claiming, branding.

He whispers things I don’t hear, just feel—against my skin, in my bones.

I don’t know when we make it to the bed.

Only that I’m in his arms.

That I’m lost in something bigger than both of us.

The sheets are cool, but his body is not.

He is all heat. Steel. Suffering.

He holds me like he’s drowning.

Touches me like he’s trying to remember how to live.

Kisses me like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

And when he finally takes me—

It’s not fast.

Not gentle either.

It’s slow. Intense. Built from restraint and barely-contained emotion.

Every movement is deliberate. Every breath shared. Every gaze locked.

I feel like I’m unraveling.

Like I’m being rewired.

Like something in me that’s always been broken—aches less when he touches it.

I don’t know what this is.

Don’t know who he is.

But I know what this moment means.

This heat.

This need.

This collision.

When it ends, I lie there in the dark, chest rising and falling like I’ve survived something.

His arms wrap around me like chains made of fire.

Then—

Sleep takes me.

---

I wake to silence.

To cold sheets.

To absence.

The fire is dead. The room dim. His side of the bed untouched.

My dress lies folded on a chair. My shoes set neatly by the door.

It’s like he was never there.

I sit up slowly.

My body aches. But not from pain.

From memory.

From being seen.

From being claimed.

I get dressed in silence.

I don’t cry.

But something in me wilts.

The villa is empty.

The main door opens beneath my hand. Outside, the world is misty, barely awake.

But I know one thing, as the wind lifts my hair and something unseen stirs across my skin—

He’s watching.

Somewhere in the shadows.

And this—

Whatever this was—

Isn’t over.

---

The bus ride home feels longer than it should.

Every bump jars something inside me. A memory. A pulse. A bruised ache between my thighs that makes me bite my lip just to stay still.

I don’t remember getting on.

I barely remember getting dressed.

All I know is the silence of his bed, the cold sheet where he should have been, and the lingering, phantom press of his body over mine.

It’s past seven when I reach my door.

My key sticks in the lock.

I fumble.

The door swings open before I get a chance to turn it.

“Eliza?”

She stands there, arms folded, eyes sharp behind smudged glasses, her hair a frizzed halo of anxiety and worry.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Her voice is stern—but it trembles. She looks like she hasn’t slept.

Like she’s been pacing.

Like she was about to call the police or maybe tear down every wall in the city to find me.

I step in. The warmth of home brushes my cheeks, and I suddenly realize how cold I am.

“Eliza,” I whisper, voice rough. “I’m fine. I—”

She grabs my arm and pulls me inside, slamming the door shut behind us.