CHAPTER 8: MIDNIGHT KITCHEN

I shouldn’t have come downstairs again.

It was past one in the morning. The house was silent. Sarah had been asleep for hours. Josh’s door had been closed since midnight. I only wanted water and maybe a piece of bread. Something simple. Something that didn’t involve thinking about the way Richard had been watching me all week.

I never heard him.

One second I was standing at the counter in the dark, glass in hand. The next, a solid body pressed against my back from shoulders to hips, pinning me lightly to the edge of the counter.

I flinched hard, a sharp breath catching in my throat.

“Don’t scream,” Richard’s voice murmured near my ear, low and calm. “It’s only me.”

I froze.

He was warm. Broader than Josh. The hard plane of his chest against my shoulder blades, the solid weight of him. And lower—unmistakable—the thick, heavy press of his cock against the small of my back, already hard through the fabric of his sweatpants.

My first instinct was to shove away. My body didn’t move.

Richard’s hands settled on the counter on either side of my waist, caging me in without quite touching me yet.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly. “Every time I walk into a room, you leave. Every time I look at you, you look away. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I—” My voice came out thin. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” One of his hands left the counter and settled on my waist, fingers spreading wide, gripping firmly. The hold was tight enough to make my breath hitch. Not bruising like Josh’s. Heavier. More deliberate. “I know about you and Josh.”

The words landed like ice water.

My pulse slammed so hard I felt it in my throat. “What?”

“I know,” he repeated, mouth closer to my ear now. “I’ve known for a while. The way he looks at you. The way you flinch when he gets too close in front of other people. The marks you try to hide. The fact that you both come downstairs in the morning looking like you barely slept.” His grip on my waist tightened. “Did you really believe I was that blind?”

I tried to step sideways. His other hand came up and pressed flat against my stomach, holding me in place. The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric of my T-shirt.

“Don’t,” he said, still quiet. “Stay still.”

I stayed still.

Richard’s hand on my stomach slid lower, slow enough that I felt every inch. Over the waistband of my shorts. Down until his fingers rested right between my legs, cupping me through the fabric with open possession. I sucked in a sharp breath. He didn’t move his hand away. He simply held me there, feeling the shape of me, the heat of me.

“I’ve watched you,” he murmured. “Watched the way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to react. Watched the way your breathing changes when someone stands too close. You’re not as good at hiding it as you think.”

His fingers pressed more firmly, rubbing once in a slow, deliberate circle that made my hips twitch against my will. A small, helpless shiver ran through me. He felt it. I knew he did, because a low sound of satisfaction left his throat.

“There it is,” he said. “You shiver the same way for me as you do for him.”

“Richard—”

“I want you.” The words were spoken against the side of my neck, calm and absolute. “I’ve wanted you for longer than I should admit. And now that I know my son is already taking what’s mine under this roof, I see no reason to keep pretending.”

His hand between my legs rubbed again—firmer this time, the heel of his palm grinding against me until my knees weakened. His other hand stayed locked on my waist, holding me still while he touched me like he already owned the right.

“Josh is young,” Richard continued, voice still low, almost conversational. “He’s rough. He’s hungry. He takes what he wants and leaves marks. I can do all of that.” His fingers curled, pressing the fabric of my shorts against my clit in a slow, relentless rhythm that made my breath stutter. “But I can also ruin you in ways he hasn’t even thought of yet. I can take my time. I can make you beg quieter. I can make you come so hard you forget whose name you’re supposed to say.”

I was shaking. I hated that I was shaking. I hated even more that the heat between my legs was growing under his hand, that my body was responding to the control in his voice the same way it responded to Josh’s cruelty.

Richard leaned in closer, his cock pressing harder against my lower back, thick and insistent.

“I’m ready for you whenever you stop running,” he whispered. “Day or night. All you have to do is stop locking your door. Or don’t. I’ll still find a way.” His hand gave one last slow, thorough stroke between my legs, making sure I felt every bit of the promise, then withdrew completely. “Remember that the next time my son is inside you. Remember that I can take you further than he ever will.”

He stepped back.

The sudden loss of his heat left me gripping the edge of the counter to stay upright.

I heard him walk toward the doorway. When I finally turned my head, he was watching me from the shadows, grey sweatpants still visibly tented, expression calm and darkly satisfied.

“Sleep well, Eliana,” he said.

Then he left the kitchen, footsteps fading down the hall.

I stood alone in the dark, pulse racing, the place where his hand had been still throbbing, and realized with a sick twist of heat that part of me was already wondering what it would feel like if he came back.

---

I barely slept after that.

Every time I closed my eyes I felt his hand between my legs again, heard his voice promising he could ruin me deeper than Josh. By the time pale morning light started filtering through the curtains, my head was pounding and my body felt heavy and wrong. I stayed in bed. I didn’t go downstairs for breakfast. I didn’t answer when Sarah knocked lightly and asked if I was coming. I just pulled the covers higher and told her I wasn’t feeling well.

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

I was scrolling mindlessly on my phone when the door opened without a knock.

Josh walked in.

He was already dressed for the day—black hoodie, jeans—but the usual sharp edge in his expression was missing. He stopped at the side of my bed and looked down at me for a long moment.

“You’re pale,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight. Then, carefully, he reached out and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. His fingers were warm. The touch was so gentle it almost didn’t feel like him. He moved his hand down to the side of my neck, checking my temperature the way someone who actually cared might.

I stared at him, confused.

Josh’s gray eyes searched my face. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t make a filthy comment. He just asked, quietly, “Are you okay?”

The softness in his voice caught me off guard. It made something in my chest twist.

“Obviously I’m not,” I snapped, the words coming out ruder than I intended.

Josh held my gaze for another second. Then he sighed, a short, quiet sound, and stood up. Without another word he walked out and closed the door behind him.

I told myself I was glad he was gone.

I almost believed it.

---

An hour later the door opened again.

Josh came back carrying a bowl of steaming chicken soup on a small tray. He set it on the nightstand, sat down beside me once more, and picked up the spoon.

“Open,” he said.

I frowned. “I’m not hungry.”

“Didn’t ask if you were hungry. Open.”

“Josh, stop—”

He ignored me and brought the spoon closer. I turned my head away. He followed. The next attempt was clumsier—I pushed at his wrist, he pulled back too fast, and hot soup sloshed over the rim of the bowl and spilled across my hand and the edge of the sheets.

I gasped at the heat.

Josh stared at the mess for half a second… then he laughed. A real, low laugh that sounded almost surprised.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he said, still grinning.

I glared at him, already swinging my legs out of bed. “You’re the one who spilled it.”

“You moved.”

I didn’t answer. I grabbed a change of clothes and locked myself in the bathroom, heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the soup. I stayed under the warm water longer than necessary, trying to wash away the memory of Richard’s hand and the strange gentleness Josh had shown me that morning.

When I finally came out nearly an hour later, the room looked different.

The sheets had been changed—fresh, clean, neatly tucked. A new tray sat on the nightstand with a proper meal: toast, fruit, more soup in a clean bowl, and a small box of tissues placed carefully beside it. The spilled soup was gone. The air smelled faintly of detergent.

I assumed Josh had done it.

The thought made something uncomfortable twist in my chest. I didn’t want his care. I didn’t know what to do with it. So I shoved the tray farther away from the bed, turned my back to it, and crawled under the clean covers with my phone.

I didn’t touch the food.

---

By evening my stomach was hollow and my head still ached, but I needed water. I pulled on a hoodie and went downstairs barefoot. The house was quiet. Sarah’s car was gone again. The only light in the kitchen came from the under-cabinet strips.

I was halfway through drinking a glass of water when I realized I wasn’t alone.

Richard stood near the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame. He was still in the clothes he’d worn to work—dark trousers, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He smiled when our eyes met. Small. Knowing.

I ignored him, finished the water, and set the glass in the sink.

“You didn’t eat the meal I left for you,” he said.

I froze with my hand still on the faucet.

Slowly I turned. “You left it?”

Richard’s smile didn’t change. “You thought it was Josh.”

I stared at him. The clean sheets. The carefully arranged tray. The tissues. All of it. I had been so sure it was Josh trying to be decent for once. The realization that it had been Richard settled over me like cold water.

Of course it hadn’t been Josh. Josh was too much of a jerk for that kind of quiet care. He would have made a comment, or demanded something in return, or simply left the soup and walked away laughing.

Richard pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me. He stopped close enough that I could smell his cologne. His hand rose, and the backs of his fingers brushed lightly over my cheek—warm, deliberate, almost tender.

Then he leaned in, mouth near my ear.

“I’ll come check on you later,” he whispered. “And you better eat what I give you next time. Could be anything.”

The words were simple. Soft. But something in the way he said them—low, certain, full of quiet promise—sent a cold wave of desire straight down my spine. My skin prickled. My breath caught.

Richard stepped back, eyes still on mine, and walked out of the kitchen without another word.

I stood there with my fingers curled around the edge of the sink, pulse racing, the place where his fingers had touched my cheek still warm.

Utterly confused.

And already wondering what he would bring me next.