In his bedroom

Dahlia

The door clicked shut behind us, sealing out the hollow echoes of the estate. The storm was still raging outside, beating against the reinforced glass of the tall windows, but inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of cedar, damp wool, and the faint, expensive trace of Rafe’s cologne.

My shoes left wet, muddy prints across the pristine hardwood floor as he set me down, but I didn't care. My legs felt hollow, the phantom drop of the cliffside still vibrating in the marrow of my bones.

Rafe didn't let go of me immediately. His hands lingered on my waist, his fingers pressing through the soft knit of my sweater with a possessive, unyielding heat that reminded me I was entirely at his mercy.

"Take those off," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum against my skin as he gestured toward my damp denim. "You're freezing."

"I don't need your clothes, Rafe," I shot back, though the defiance lacked its usual sharp edge, muffled by the shivering exhaustion creeping into my limbs.

"It wasn't a request, Dahlia."

He moved with a quiet, deliberate grace, walking over to the massive mahogany wardrobe against the far wall. When he turned back, he was holding a thick, oversized charcoal-grey cashmere sweater that looked like it would swallow me whole. He tossed it onto the edge of the king-size bed before walking back to stand directly in front of me, closing the small distance I had tried to put between us.

The air between us felt heavy, charged with that same volatile friction that always hummed whenever we were locked in the same room. He reached out, his long fingers catching the hem of my wet sweater. The brush of his knuckles against my stomach sent an involuntary shiver straight down my spine—not from the cold this time, but from the terrifying intimacy of it.

"Let me," he whispered, his dark, unblinking eyes holding mine hostage.

I didn't stop him. I stood there, stiff and breathing hard, as he carefully peeled the damp fabric over my head, tossing it aside onto the floor. When my hands brushed against his chest, I could feel the hard, rapid beat of his heart beneath his soaked white shirt. He wasn't as untouchable as he pretended to be; the near-miss on the cliff had rattled even him, hidden beneath that terrifying veneer of control.

He caught my face in both of his large, warm hands, his thumbs gently tracing the high curve of my cheekbones, wiping away the lingering traces of rain and mud.

"You terrified me," he breathed, the words escaping him like a confession he hadn't meant to make.

"You set that trap," I whispered back, my voice cracking slightly as I stared up into his face. "You knew what was waiting on that road."

"I knew their intentions," Rafe corrected softly, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to meet my eyes with a dark, consuming intensity. "I needed them to think they'd won so they'd stop hiding. But seeing you spin out toward that drop... knowing my car was the one on that road..." His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking violently beneath his skin. "I won't let anyone touch you, Dahlia. Do you hear me? You are mine. Every second you spend breathing inside these walls belongs to me."

The words were a dark, possessive chain wrapped tightly around my throat, yet every nerve ending in my body leaned into them, aching for the release of the tension that had been building between us since the moment I walked through his front gates.

Before I could answer, before I could push him away or pull him closer, Rafe's mouth came down on mine in a hungry, desperate collision of friction and need, a storm breaking after days of suffocating pressure.

His hands slid from my face down to the small of my back, lifting me effortlessly against him as I gasped against his mouth, my fingers tangling into the damp dark hair at the nape of his neck. The scent of rain enveloped me entirely, drowning out every doubt, every warning siren screaming in the back of my mind.

He backed me slowly toward the edge of the oversized bed, never breaking the kiss, never loosening his grip, as if letting go for even a second meant losing me to the dark outside.

The cold world outside ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his skin, the heavy thrum of his pulse beneath my fingertips, and the terrifying, beautiful realization that I had walked right into the lion's den—and I didn't want to leave.