Page 50 of His To Unravel
And I’m nothing if not prepared.
Thanks to the necklace I’ve clasped around her neck, I had her location in seconds: Space Cowboy. The kind of place where men drink too much and stare too long, thinking desire entitles them to touch.
They wouldn’t understand the first thing about a woman like her.
I told myself I’d stay put. I even poured a drink. But my body betrayed me long before my better judgment caught up. One moment I was pacing the kitchen, the next I was in my car driving to her. I had no plan or justification beyond the thrum in my blood that only settles when I’m near her.
By the time I arrived, I was already rehearsing excuses.
Perhaps I’d pretend I was in the neighborhood. Maybe I’d say Tyler had mentioned it and I figured I’d swing by. And when I saw Tyler and Sophie tangled together on the dance floor, relief cut through the possessive knot in my chest. At least I wouldn’t be the only one crashing their girls’ night.
Then I saw her.
The memory of Landon’s hands on her and his sorry attempt at a kiss burns in my mind like a brand. He dared to lay his hands on what ismine. The thought sears through me, quick and savage, and my fists tighten instinctively. The urge to find him and finish what I started burns low and lethal beneath my skin.
But Olivia—myOlivia—tempers the fire.
Her fragility is a salve to my rage, a reminder of what matters most.
I watch as she moves toward the sofa, gingerly lowering herself onto the cushions without a word. Her hands are twisted in her lap, the dim lighting casting delicate shadows across her features.
I step closer, each movement measured, deliberate.
“You can stay here tonight,” I say, my voice low, a controlled undercurrent beneath the quiet storm in my chest. I watch her closely, the flicker of hesitation in her green eyes, the slight twitch of her lips. But she doesn’t argue, doesn’t retreat.
Good girl.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” I add, softening my tone. “I’ll take care of you.” Security is what she needs, what I can provide. Whatonly Ican provide.
Guilt flashes in her expression, a shadow beneath the exhaustion. Whether it’s guilt for needing me or for wanting this—wantingme—it doesn’t matter. She will stay.
I move past her, heading toward the bedroom. I don’t rush; giving the moment space to breathe. Every action has to feel natural, every word carefully chosen.
Grabbing one of my shirts from a drawer, I pause, fingers curling around the soft cotton. As I return to her, I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my mouth with knowing she’ll be wrapped in it, smelling of me. I hold it out to her like an offering, though it’s so much more than that. It’s aclaiming.
“Here,” I say, my tone coaxing. “It’ll be more comfortable than what you’re wearing.”
She hesitates, her eyes darting from me to the shirt, then back again.
For a fleeting moment, I think she might refuse, some last shred of stubborn independence sparking to life. But then her hand lifts slowly, and she takes it.
My pulse thrums as her fingers brush mine, fleeting and electric. I feel the victory in her compliance—not a victory over her, but a victory forus. She belongs here with me. Whether she fully accepts it yet is immaterial.
“Bathroom’s through there,” I murmur, nodding toward the en-suite. “You can take a shower if you’d like.”
She moves without a word, her steps quiet and slow. I watch her until she disappears from view, the door clicking shut behind her.
Alone now, I exhale, though it does little to ease the tension coiled within me. My thoughts churn, a tangled web of fury, desire, and determination. Landon had been a threat, yes, but Olivia’s reaction—her retreat, her willingness to let me take charge—was revelatory. She was scared and shaken, and she had turned tome.
The fragile balance between us is tilting, subtly but surely, in my favor. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s learning to trust me, to see me as her constant. And I will make sure she never feels the need to stand on her own again.
Soon enough, the door to the bathroom creaks open once more and my breath catches.
She emerges through the haze of steam, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders, the soft cotton of my shirt draping over her curvy frame. It’s a sight I have envisioned countless times, but the reality is far more potent than any fantasy.
The scent hits me first—my soap, my shampoo, warm and clean on her skin. Familiar, but not the way it used to be. The shirt brushes mid-thigh, leaving long stretches of bare skin exposed. She’s stunning, raw in her vulnerability, and never more mine.
Something primal roars to life within me. Possession. Desire. Triumph.
