Chapter 18

Clara's POV 

The cold inside the cabin set in with terrifying speed.

Without the engine running, the air inside the Civic rapidly turned crisp and damp. Fog condensed along the glass, obscuring the dark, rain-soaked trees outside. In the backseat, Leo began to whimper, pulling his knees up to his chest inside his yellow raincoat.

"Mama, cold," he whimpered.

"I know, baby. I know." I unbuckled my seatbelt, wiped the cold tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, and reached for the hood release lever beneath the dash.

I popped the hood with a sharp metal clack. I knew absolutely nothing about cars—Mark had always taken pride in keeping me utterly clueless about mechanics or home repairs—but sitting in the dark waiting for someone to magically appear on a deserted back road wasn't an option.

I pushed the heavy driver's side door open against the force of the wind and stepped out into the tempest.

The freezing rain hit me like a physical blow. Within three seconds, my thin cotton cardigan was completely saturated, clinging heavily to my arms and back like an icy second skin. Water streamed down my face, blinding me, stinging my eyes as I stumbled through the wet gravel to the front of the car.

I lifted the heavy metal hood, propping it open with the metal rod.

A cloud of dark, acrid white steam hissed up into the rain, smelling strongly of burnt rubber and scorched oil. I stared down into the tangled labyrinth of wires, belts, and metal components, my hands shivering so violently I could barely keep my balance. I had no idea what I was looking at. A thick rubber belt was snapped in half, hanging limply near the radiator, but I didn't have the tools, the knowledge, or the physical strength to fix it.

I was entirely, completely helpless.

I buried my wet face in my trembling hands, standing in the mud beside the smoking engine, letting the freezing downpour wash over me. I felt as small and discarded as a piece of roadside trash.

Then, two blinding beams of pure white light sliced through the thick, gray curtain of rain.

I flinched, throwing a wet arm up over my eyes as a vehicle approached from behind my dead Civic. The engine didn't roar or sputter; it glided over the flooded gravel with a low, silky purr that sounded like a hunting predator.

A massive, midnight-black Maybach pulled onto the muddy shoulder, stopping precisely five feet in front of my Honda. Its hazard lights began to flash—a rhythmic, amber pulse in the dark.

The driver’s side door opened. An enormous black umbrella popped open with a crisp, authoritative thwack, shielding the figure that stepped out onto the flooded pavement.

Julian Thorne stepped into the storm.

He wasn't wearing his usual structured corporate suit. He wore a fitted, dark charcoal turtleneck that emphasized the broad width of his shoulders, dark tailored trousers, and leather boots that stepped directly into a deep mud puddle without a second thought. He looked impossibly handsome, commanding, and entirely surreal—a dark titan stepping out of the mist onto a dirty suburban road.

He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't ask for an explanation.

Julian walked straight up to where I stood shivering beside the smoking engine hood. His dark, unreadable eyes swept over my wet hair, my blue-tinged lips, and my ruined sweater. A look of such intense, terrifying fury flashed across his sharp feature that I flinched backward—but the rage wasn't directed at me.

Without saying a single word, Julian unbuttoned his heavy, full-length black cashmere coat. He removed it, stepped close to me, and draped the thick, warm wool firmly over my freezing shoulders.

The coat swallowed my frame whole, extending down past my knees. It was heavy, dry, and radiating his pure, intense body heat. The lining carried his intoxicating scent—a rich, sophisticated blend of cedarwood, dark musk, and subtle woodsmoke.

"Get in my car, Clara," he commanded. His voice was a low, deep rumble that effortlessly cut through the deafening roar of the rain.

"My... my groceries..." I stammered through chattering teeth, pointing blindly toward the trunk. "And the car..."

"I will replace the groceries, and I will handle the car," he cut in, his dark eyes fierce, unyielding, and terrifyingly protective.

He didn't wait for my permission or compliance. He turned, walked straight past me to the rear door of my Honda, and pulled it open.

Inside, Leo was sitting in his car seat, wide-eyed and quiet. Usually, my son was profoundly timid around strangers; he would hide behind my legs or cry if an unfamiliar man spoke to him too loudly in public.

Julian leaned into the vehicle, his massive frame filling the doorframe. He didn't speak down to Leo in a high-pitched voice. He simply looked at my son, his harsh features softening slightly, and unbuckled the car seat harness with calm, practiced ease.

"Come here, little man," Julian murmured softly.

To my absolute shock, Leo didn't cry. He didn't flinch. He reached out his tiny arms, wrapped them tightly around Julian’s broad neck, and buried his face directly into the warm wool of Julian's shoulder. Julian lifted my three-year-old child effortlessly with one arm, shielding Leo’s head with the large black umbrella held in his other hand.

Julian turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine over my son’s shoulder. The raw, possessive intensity in his gaze made my stomach clench tight with a sudden, overwhelming heat.

He guided me to the rear passenger door of the Maybach, opening it and waiting until I slid onto the warm, butter-soft leather interior. He set Leo gently beside me, pulled the heavy door shut, sealing out the icy storm, and walked around to the driver's seat.

Inside, the car was a warm, fragrant sanctuary. The heated leather seats immediately began to soothe the agonizing chill in my bones.

Julian pulled a sleek black phone from his console, tapped the screen twice, and held it to his ear as he pulled the Maybach out onto the road.

"Silas," Julian said into the phone, his tone dropping into a dead, icy register. "Route 9 along the pine ridge. There is a red Honda Civic on the shoulder. Send a flatbed tow truck immediately. Have it taken to my private garage downtown. I want every mechanical failure documented, repaired, and replaced with top-tier components. Do it now."

He hung up without waiting for a reply.

He drove us home in complete, heavy silence. He didn't turn on the radio. He didn't ask intrusive questions. He simply navigated the flooded streets with quiet, masterclass precision, his broad hands resting on the leather steering wheel.

When he pulled the Maybach into my suburban driveway twenty minutes later, I assumed he would drop us off under the portico and drive away.

Instead, Julian put the car in park, grabbed his umbrella, and stepped out into the rain. He opened my door, took Leo into his arm again, and walked us straight up the front porch steps.

I pulled my house key from my purse with numb, trembling fingers, fumbling twice before unlocking the deadbolt. I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into the dim, cold entryway.

"Thank you, Julian," I stammered, dripping rainwater onto the entry rug, pulling his heavy cashmere coat tighter around my wet frame. "I... I don't know what we would have done. You really didn't have to do all this."

Julian didn't reply. He stepped over the threshold, pulling the heavy door shut behind him, effectively locking out the storm and the outside world.

He set Leo down on the hallway runner. Then, he stood in the center of my foyer, his tall frame dominating the space, his dark eyes scanning the living room layout with an odd, unsettling familiarity.

Without asking where the bathroom was, without asking for permission, Julian walked straight past me. He moved down the narrow hallway on confident, silent strides, turned the corner, and stepped directly into the guest bathroom.

He didn't search the linen closet. He didn't open the upper medicine cabinet.

Julian leaned down, pulled open the bottom drawer on the left side of the vanity—the exact, hidden drawer where I kept the extra-thick, plush white bath towels—pulled one out, and walked smoothly back into the hallway.

He stepped up to where I stood frozen on the rug, opened the dry towel, and draped it gently over my wet curls. His warm, dry knuckles lightly brushed against my ice-cold cheekbone as he adjusted the fabric.

My heart stalled completely in my chest, beating a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs.

I hadn't told him where the bathroom was. I hadn't mentioned the towels. He had never set foot inside my home before today.

So how in the world did

Julian Thorne know exactly where I kept my linens?