10. Craving the Forbidden

Aaron

The smell of smoke still lingers in the back of my throat as I stand before what used to be mine.

The warehouse is an inferno, flames stretching high into the night sky like they want to devour the stars. Sirens wail, lights from rescue trucks and police cars strobe across my face. Men in uniforms rush past me, shouting orders, dragging hoses, pointing to exits. I can hear the hiss of water being blasted against fire, but it’s useless. The fire has already claimed it.

My warehouse. My empire’s backbone. Gone.

I clench my fists as the heat washes over me, sweat rolling down my temples despite the cold bite of night air. I should walk away, I should leave this chaos to the professionals, but I can’t move. My chest feels like it’s caving in as I watch everything I’ve built turn into ashes.

Wyatt grips my arm, pulling me back a few steps as sparks shower near the fence. “Sir, we can’t stand this close—”

“I’m not moving,” I growl. My eyes never leave the flames.

No one knows how this fire started. Not yet. But I know. Somewhere deep inside, my instincts sharpen to a point. This isn’t random. This isn’t an accident.

And then, I see it.

Near the edge of the lot, half-buried under gravel and soot, lies a small rectangle of paper. My shoes crunch against ash as I step toward it, crouching down. My chest tightens when I turn it over.

Another picture of her, printed, was left here as if mocking me. My stomach knots with both fury and dread. Someone wants me to believe she is the reason behind this destruction. Or maybe… they want me to realize the truth I’ve been trying to avoid.

Before anyone notices, I slip the photograph into my coat pocket. The last thing I need is cops sniffing around her name.

“Wyatt.” My voice is sharp, cutting through the crackle of fire and sirens. He steps closer, his jaw clenched. “What is it?”

“Find the roots of this fire. Every trace, every whisper, every rumor. I want answers. And I want them fast.” He nods once, his expression grim.

The flames continue to devour what’s mine, but in my chest, something else burns hotter—doubt. Suspicion. Lena’s face. Always her.

The next day, I stay in. My mansion feels colder than usual, the silence heavier, as if the walls themselves know what I’ve lost. I haven’t slept. I haven’t even changed out of last night’s clothes. My glass of scotch sits untouched on the desk as I stare at the faint reflection in the window.

Wyatt calls, informing me. “There’s an urgent document. It requires your signature. It’s being sent here today.” I grunt, leaning back. “Fine. Have it brought in.”

Not long after, a knock echoes through the hall. My brow furrows when the butler announces who it is.

Lena.

Of all people.

She steps into my study, carrying the folder. She looks cautious, her eyes flicking around the room before settling on me. She wears her concern like a second skin. “I’m sorry about the warehouse,” she says softly.

The sincerity in her tone nearly makes me falter, but my suspicion anchors me. I motion toward the chair. “Sit.” She does. I sign the papers quickly, the scratch of my pen filling the silence. When I finish, I pour two drinks. “Have one,” I offer.

Her brows lift, but she takes the glass. She sips carefully, and I watch the way her throat moves when she swallows. “Hard week for you,” she murmurs.

“Hard month,” I correct. My eyes don’t leave hers. “But life has a way of testing men.”

“Not always men, I assure you,” with the confidence in her tone, I can tell that she is definitely hiding something from me. Fuck. Why does her problem brings me to anger?

When she rises to leave, thunder rumbles outside. A servant rushes in. “Sir, the storm is severe. It’s not safe for her to drive.”

I glance toward the window. Sheets of rain blur the glass, lightning flashing in the distance. Convenient. Too convenient. “You’ll stay the night,” I tell her, leaving no room for refusal.

She hesitates, then nods.

Dinner is quiet, filled with the low hum of the storm and flickers of candlelight when the power threatens to fade. She picks at her food while I study her. Every movement, every breath, every word.

Later, I show her to the guest room. She thanks me politely, but the tension in her shoulders betrays her discomfort. An hour passes. I can’t rest. My mind spins in loops of fire, suspicion, and her. Always her.

The storm keeps pounding outside, wind howling against the windows as if nature itself wants to test the walls of my house. She stands by the window, her arms folded against her chest, her gaze lost somewhere beyond the rain. When I step inside, she doesn’t flinch, but I can tell by the stiffness of her shoulders she knows I’m here.

“You can’t sleep either?” I ask, my voice low, careful, as if speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile thread is holding us in this quiet moment.

She tilts her head slightly, enough to look at me, her eyes reflecting both the storm and something softer. “I never sleep well in new places,” she admits, her voice barely above the rain’s rhythm. “Everything feels unfamiliar.”

“I know the feeling,” I confess, lowering myself onto the sofa across the room. My body sinks into it, restless. “My mind’s too loud tonight. The fire… it doesn’t leave me.”

Her lips part slightly, maybe to respond, but instead she turns back to the window. Then, in a motion so sudden it catches me off guard, she pushes it open. A rush of cold air sweeps in, carrying the scent of rain. She closes her eyes and breathes it in.

And then the rain reaches her.

It splashes across her hair, her shoulders, dampening the fabric of her blouse until it clings to her skin. She laughs—a soft, startled sound—as if she didn’t expect the storm to actually touch her.

“Lena,” I say, half a warning, half a laugh of my own. I am quick to reflex before I clear my throat, “I mean, Ms Lena. You will catch a cold.”

She shakes her head, her wet hair sticking to her cheek. “It feels… alive.”

But within seconds, her blouse darkens fully, the fabric transparent against her skin. The sight makes my throat tighten. I laugh under my breath, shaking my head, trying to brush it off. I never thought I would be intimidated by a woman’s blouse. This is so fucking absurd.

“You’re soaked. You’ll get sick if you keep standing there.” She turns toward me, her eyes sparking with defiance and amusement. “I assume you have never soaked in the rain before.” My silence is the answer, and she becomes surprised, “Is it?”

“No.” I firmly say, “Come on, now. I won’t grant you any sick leave.”

She is amused by my statement, “Then close the window.”

“I will. But only if you change into something dry first.”

Her expression falters—hesitation flickering in her eyes. She glances down at herself, then back at me. “You’re not leaving,” she accuses softly, almost nervously. She’s right. I should leave. I should step out of the room, give her space. But my body refuses to move.

“Not until I know you’re not stubborn enough to sleep in wet clothes,” I say, my tone deliberately steady though my chest is tightening. Something inside me tells me to stay, and for the first time, I am listening to the inner voice within me.

She exhales, a mixture of irritation and something else—acceptance, maybe. Her fingers toy with the hem of her blouse, and then she begins to unbutton it. Slowly. Carefully.

Each button undone feels like a punch to my control. I should look away. I don’t. But I enjoy this very private strip show, which is just for me. No one else.

Her blouse slips from her shoulders, sliding to the floor, leaving her in a simple lace undergarment that does nothing to hide the curve of her body. She avoids my gaze, as though my eyes might burn her if she meets them.

“Lena…” I whisper, unsure if I’m warning her or myself. Her hands move to unclasp the rest, but they falter. Her breath catches, shaky. I stand then, moving toward her, slow, deliberate. “Let me.”

“You know what it means, right?” Her voice is low like the texture of rubber. “I know,” I say.

Her head snaps up, her eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, I think she’ll refuse, step back, rebuild the wall between us. But she doesn’t. She nods, almost imperceptibly.

I reach for her, my fingers brushing against her damp skin as I undo the delicate clasp. The garment slips away, revealing her to me for the first time. My breath stutters. I’ve seen beauty before, but nothing like this. Not raw, not vulnerable, not real.

She stands still, arms folded instinctively across her chest, as if waiting for judgment.

“You’re… breathtaking,” I murmur, unable to keep it inside. Something in her softens. She lowers her arms. And at this moment, restraint leaves me.

I lean in, capturing her mouth with mine. She gasps, startled, but then she melts into me, her fingers clutching at my shirt as though holding on for balance. The kiss deepens—urgent, desperate, pulling at something inside me I didn’t know was starving.

I lift her, effortlessly, carrying her away from the storm-soaked window. She clings to me, her legs wrapping around my waist as if she belongs nowhere else.

The world narrows to the heat of her skin against mine, the taste of rain still lingering on her lips, the quiet sounds escaping her throat that undo me more than fire ever could. We stumble to the bed, and when I lower her onto it, she looks up at me with eyes that are both uncertain and inviting.

“Aaron…” she whispers, my name a plea, a tether, a warning. And this is enough to seduce me.

I silence it with another kiss, my hand tracing the curve of her waist, memorizing her. Every touch feels like a choice I shouldn’t be making, yet I can’t stop.

The storm rages on outside, thunder rolling like a heartbeat too big for the sky, but here—here it’s just us. Skin against skin. Breath against breath. Two people who should never cross this line, crossing it anyway.

When it happens, it’s not just physical. It’s a breaking point. A surrender. Every barrier, every pretense of professionalism burns away just like my warehouse did the night before. But this time, I don’t feel loss. I feel consumed.

Hours later, when silence finally settles over the house, I lie awake beside her. She’s curled against me, her breathing steady, peaceful. I trace the line of her shoulder with my fingers, memorizing the shape of her in my arms.

And for the first time in years, I feel both terrified and alive. But the morning doesn’t let me keep that peace.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. At first, I ignore it, unwilling to let the world in. But it buzzes again, insistent. I reach for it. The moment I read the name on the screen, my stomach twists. My expression hardens.

Whoever is calling—it’s enough to shatter whatever fragile world Lena and I built last night. And she’s still asleep, unaware that everything is about to change.

I grab the phone, pressing it to my ear, and before I even realize, the name slips out—“Vivienne." My own voice stuns me, raw and broken, like an old wound tearing open again. For a second, I can’t breathe. The fire, the storm, Lena—it all fades. Her name spins inside my skull, a violent tornado of memories I’ve spent years trying to bury.

My jaw tightens. The past isn’t dead. It’s reaching for me again, and I know it’s about to consume everything.