Dangerous Avoidance

Elena couldn’t look at herself in the mirror.

Every time she tried, she saw swollen lips, flushed skin, eyes that glistened with guilt—and memory. The taste of Adrian lingered in her mouth, cruel proof of what she’d done.

I kissed him back.

The thought clawed at her chest like a dagger. She should have screamed. She should have slapped him. She should have ended it right there. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d melted into him, clung to him, begged with her body for more.

Her husband’s face flickered through her mind, bringing nausea. Gregory had trusted her, given her a home, his name. And she’d betrayed him in the worst way imaginable.

The doorbell rang, startling her out of her spiral.

Elena pressed a hand to her chest, exhaling shakily. Thank God. A distraction.

But when she went downstairs, the hallway was empty. No visitor. No delivery.

Just Adrian.

He leaned against the wall near the door, watching her silently. His arms were folded across his chest, veins running thick across his forearms, his T-shirt hugging every line of his muscles. His gaze was unreadable—dark, intense, unyielding.

“Adrian,” she breathed, heart thudding. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting,” he said simply.

“For what?”

His smirk was slow, deliberate. “For you to stop pretending.”

Heat surged through her veins. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “What happened yesterday was a mistake. It will never happen again.”

His eyes narrowed. He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “A mistake?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Is that what you tell yourself when you close your eyes and replay it over and over?”

Her breath caught. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

Adrian leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “You want me, Elena. You tasted it. You can’t lie anymore.”

Her knees trembled. She pressed herself against the wall for support, desperate to create space. “I want you to leave me alone.”

But her voice cracked. Weak.

Adrian chuckled darkly, his breath hot against her cheek. “You don’t sound convincing.”

She shoved at his chest, but he barely budged. He caught her wrists in his hands, holding them against the wall. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was unyielding, firm, a reminder of his strength.

Elena’s pulse hammered in her throat.

“You think you can run from this?” he whispered, eyes boring into hers. “You think locking your door, avoiding me, will erase what happened? You’re mine now, Elena. Even if you fight it, even if you hate yourself for it—you’re mine.”

Her breath hitched violently. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head.

But Adrian’s gaze dropped to her lips again, and the memory of his mouth crashing against hers flooded her senses.

Desire burned hot in her belly, betraying her words.

Sensing her weakness, Adrian released her wrists slowly, deliberately, but didn’t step back. Instead, his hand slid down her arm, lingering against her skin. “Gregory will never touch you the way I do,” he murmured. “He’ll never look at you the way I do. You can’t hide from me, Elena. Not in this house.”

Her chest heaved, her lips parting helplessly.

Finally, with visible effort, she tore herself away, rushing past him into the living room. She put distance between them, clutching the edge of the couch, trying to steady her breath.

“Don’t you dare say his name,” she hissed, voice trembling. “Don’t you dare drag your father into this.”

Adrian followed, slow, predatory, his smirk never fading. “Why not? He doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t even see you. But I do. Every curve. Every look. Every little sound you make when I’m too close.”

Elena’s face flushed crimson.

“I hate you,” she whispered, though it came out strangled, weak.

“No,” Adrian said, his smirk vanishing, his voice low and raw. “You crave me. There’s a difference.”

Silence thickened between them, charged, suffocating.

Elena’s heart thundered so loud she swore he could hear it.

Finally, she turned sharply, storming toward the stairs. “Stay away from me, Adrian. I mean it.”

But before she could reach her room, his voice chased her up the staircase.

“You can run, Elena. You can scream. You can curse me. But the next time I touch you—” his tone dropped to a growl, “—you won’t stop me. You’ll beg me for more.”

Her steps faltered. Her breath caught in her throat.

And she hated herself for knowing he was right.

Elena spent the rest of the day locked in her room, pacing, staring at the walls, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of guilt and longing. She avoided the kitchen. She avoided the living room. Every space in the mansion felt haunted by him.

But hunger eventually drove her downstairs that evening.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

She made her way into the kitchen, relieved when she didn’t see him there. She opened the fridge, pulling out some leftovers, trying to steady her breath.

But when she turned, Adrian was already leaning against the counter, watching her.

She dropped the plate with a startled cry, shattering porcelain across the floor.

His smirk widened. “Careful, Elena. You’re jumpy.”

Her chest rose and fell quickly. “I can’t live like this, Adrian. I won’t.”

He pushed off the counter, moving toward her with slow, deliberate steps. “Then stop fighting me.”

Her back hit the fridge. She had nowhere to run.

Adrian caged her in with his arms, his face mere inches from hers. His scent wrapped around her, dizzying, intoxicating.

“Admit it,” he whispered, his breath brushing her lips. “Admit you think about me when you’re alone. Admit your body aches for me.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “Stop…”

But her voice cracked, betraying her again.

Adrian’s gaze burned into her. For a long, tense moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, deliberately, he brushed his lips against her jaw, feather-light. Not a kiss. Just enough to make her shudder.

Her knees nearly gave out.

“See?” he murmured darkly. “You’re already mine.”

And then, just as suddenly as he’d come, he stepped back, leaving her trembling, breathless, and furious with herself.

Elena sagged against the fridge, her hands shaking.

She hated him.

She hated herself more.

But most of all—she hated how badly she wanted him to come back.