I didn’t go home that night.
I told myself it was just s*x. A mistake. A filthy lapse in judgment that had to stay buried. But when I walked down the Blackwood mansion steps barefoot, dress wrinkled and skin aching, Cain was already waiting by the front door—jacket off, shirt unbuttoned at the top, leaning against the marble pillar like he hadn’t just wrecked me against his balcony.
“You’re not leaving,” he said, voice low, final.
I froze mid-step. “I should.”
He pushed off the pillar and walked toward me—slow, deliberate, confident. Every step made my stomach clench with shame and want.
“I let you walk away once,” he said. “I won’t do it again.”
His hand came up and brushed the side of my face. “Come upstairs.”
“I can’t,” I whispered, even as I leaned into his touch. “You’re… him.”
