CHAPTER SIX

Crossing Lines

NEO

My heart hammered in my chest as Daniel dragged me out. My cheeks turned red as heat rose to my face, my ears burning. A crowd had already gathered outside to watch the commotion. Daniel looked unbothered as he held my arm tightly. I wanted to punch that smug face so badly it hurt. “Get on the bike,” he snapped. That was when I saw it.

It was the black motorcycle I’d seen earlier in the parking lot. “You’ve got to be kidding. There’s no way on earth I’m getting on that thing,” I shot back.

“You’d better get on the damn bike, or I’m gonna carry you and shove your ass on it. Your choice,” he said, sliding a helmet over his head until the padding pressed against his cheeks. He shoved another helmet into my hands, and I sighed, half from frustration and half from defeat. All the while, people didn’t stop recording; cameras flashed our way over and over.

“What about my car? I drove here by myself. You didn’t have to come here dramatically like I’m some sixteen-year-old who snuck out.”

“If you don’t want to be treated like a child, stop acting like one,” he muttered under his breath, still loud enough for me to hear.

He swung his leg over the bike, settling into the seat as the leather creaked beneath him. One twist of the key and a press of the starter, and the engine roared to life. I reluctantly climbed behind him and settled on the seat. “I’ll let someone get the car,” he said as the motorbike jerked forward and made a sharp turn, leaving the people watching behind in bewilderment.

The ride felt endless. My pulse never slowed, nor did my heart, not even when the city lights gave way to quiet streets. My arms naturally locked tight around Daniel. This was my first time on a motorcycle, and I was scared of falling. That was what I told myself when I wrapped my arms around his torso. He flinched at the contact but then relaxed as we rode on.

The leather of his jacket warmed beneath my palms, and every curve of the bike forced me closer, pressing our bodies together more than I cared to admit.

When we finally skidded to a halt inside the penthouse, I tore the helmet off, and all the anger I had been harboring throughout the night came rushing back. “You’re insane,” my voice cut through the silent air. “What was that about? Do you know how many people were watching us? Dragging me out like a criminal—you don’t just do things because you feel it’s the right thing to do,” I ended, my chest heaving rapidly.

Daniel swung off the bike, tugging off his helmet with a maddening calm. How could he be calm after what he had just done?

He turned sharply to face me, locking his gaze with mine. “Do you know how many people were watching you in there? How many chances you give someone to hurt you?”

I knew he was right in some way, but that didn’t justify his treating me like that. I was a full-grown man with my own mind.

I scoffed, shoving at him and heading toward the door. “It was a party, not an assassination attempt,” I said. Before I could reach the door, he caught my wrist and spun me around. His grip was firm—not rough, not gentle, just firm. I froze, caught off guard, my wrist warm under his hand. Words from the argument hung in the air, sharp and unfinished.

I glanced at him, unsure whether to pull away or stay, while the sudden silence made everything else fade for a heartbeat. And why the hell was my heart racing?

“You think I don’t notice the same faces following you from venue to venue?” His voice was low, dangerously low. “You think your stalker doesn’t know you sneak off, that you lie to security? You’re making yourself an easy target,” he spat.

My throat clenched, and I yanked my wrist free, needing space, air, anything. “You don’t understand. You don’t get it. You’re not the one trapped in glass walls twenty-four-seven! I just wanted—” My voice cracked. “One night,” I finished.

The tension between us was sharp, fragile. Daniel’s eyes softened, just for a second. Then it was gone. This was the only time I had seen him with such an expression, and it made my stomach twist.

“One night isn’t worth your life,” he replied, unusually quiet. I hated the way my chest clenched at that, hated how the steadiness in his voice affected me, and most definitely hated how good he looked in the black leather jacket and black pants.

I turned away, shoulders rigid, steps heavy. “You don’t own me, Ross. Nobody does.” The doors to the house opened automatically and I stepped inside.

I slammed my door behind me  when I entered my room, the lock clicking loud in the small room. My chest felt tight, and I pressed my back against the door, trying to make my pulse slow. I didn’t want to hear him. I didn’t want to think about him.

Footsteps on the floor outside made me stop breathing for a second. He was in the house. I could hear him moving, careful but deliberate, like he was measuring every step. The air felt heavier and charged, every creak cutting through the quiet.

A soft knock came at the door. My stomach twisted. He was trying to apologize—or at least, that was what I thought. No words, just that single, hesitant tap. My grip on the doorknob tightened, fingers trembling.

“Neo?” The knock came again, a little firmer this time, almost impatient. I pictured him standing there, hands awkward at his sides, trying to close the space I had made. My mind screamed to ignore him, to stay here and let him sit with it, but my body betrayed me, tensing like it was waiting for something I wasn’t ready for.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. My door was shut, but the sound of his movement, and the hesitant knock—it was all too close. And still, despite everything, I found myself listening.