CHAPTER LXXIV
The next morning, the sun was barely brushing the skyline when I set out for the office. The roads were quiet, bathed in a sleepy haze. I was driving, trying to clear my head, when I spotted him—Lylah's fiancé—walking on the sidewalk with another woman.
Something inside me froze.
His hand was holding hers. Too familiar. Too intimate. He wasn't just talking to her… he was smiling, laughing—looking at her the way a man only looks at someone he belongs to.
Without thinking, I pulled over, heart pounding against my ribs. I kept my eyes on them as I followed at a distance, every step feeding the uneasy knot in my stomach. They walked into a run-down old house at the edge of the street, a place that looked abandoned to most… but clearly wasn't.
I waited a moment. Then I slipped inside.
The air was musty, thick with silence. Dust floated through the golden slivers of light breaking through cracked windows. I stepped quietly, trying not to make a sound—
And then, suddenly, I couldn't breathe.
A hand came over my mouth from behind. Another arm locked around my waist, pulling me roughly into one of the rooms. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest until the person turned me around—and I came face to face with her.
"Lylah," I whispered.
She was breathless too, like she hadn't expected to see me either.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her eyes flashing. "Are you following me?"
"I saw him," I said, still catching my breath. "Your fiancé. With another woman."
She looked away, almost tired. "She's his wife."
I blinked. "Wife? Then why the hell is he trying to marry you?"
Lylah laughed bitterly, like she'd heard that question too many times in her head already. "Because people like him don't care about what's right. They only care about what they can get away with."
"You deserve better," I said, stepping toward her.
She crossed her arms, trying to distance herself. "I told you things last night, yes. But that doesn't mean you get to follow me around and play hero. This isn't your story. Don't make it about you."
My jaw clenched. "It became my story the second you decided to give up on your life. The second I pulled you back from the edge."
Her breath hitched. She tried to step away, but I reached out, gently grabbing her waist. My touch wasn't forceful—just enough to remind her I was here, and I wasn't walking away.
"I'm not going to let you destroy yourself," I said softly, our faces just inches apart.
She met my gaze with a shaky breath. "You think you can save me?"
"I think I want to try."
She tried to pull away. "Let go."
"No," I said, voice firmer now.
"Fine," she whispered. And then—she bit me.
Hard.
Not enough to break skin, but enough to jolt me backwards.
Pain stung my cheek, but more than that, something opened inside me. A flash. A memory. A buried feeling I couldn't name—too deep, too old. Her bite didn't hurt as much as it woke something up. Something terrifying and beautiful.
I let her go.
She stepped back, her expression softening. "I didn't want to hurt you… but I didn't know how else to make you stop."
For a second, silence wrapped around us. Then I smiled—a slow, dangerous smile. "You really think I'm that easy to push away?"
And before she could answer, I pulled her back toward me and kissed her.
It wasn't gentle.
It was messy. Intense. Full of all the things we'd been avoiding—anger, fear, longing, and something deeper neither of us dared to name.
She gasped, her hands pushing at my chest, but I didn't stop.
And then… she stopped resisting.
She melted into the kiss, her fingers curling into my shirt as if holding on for dear life. Her lips moved against mine with need, with urgency, with all the things words had failed to say between us.
We didn't care about the broken house. The dust. The silence. For a moment, nothing else existed but her mouth on mine, her heartbeat racing in sync with mine.
When we finally broke apart, gasping for air, her forehead rested against mine.
And then, without warning, she stepped back.
Her eyes lingered on mine—just for a heartbeat longer.
I didn't ask for permission when I took her hand.
I didn't need to.
There was something in the way her fingers softly curled back around mine—hesitant, delicate—that told me she was waiting to be led. Not because she was weak. But because she was tired of carrying the weight alone.
Without speaking, I walked us out of that suffocating house where her past tried to chain her down. The air outside hit our skin like a quiet salvation. Still, she said nothing. But her silence was full—like the space between thunder and lightning.
We reached my car, and I opened the door for her. She slid inside without protest, her eyes never leaving mine. There was no fear in them anymore… only something quieter. Something searching.
I took the wheel, and before I pulled away, I grabbed my phone and called my office.
"Boss, I won't be coming in today," I said, masking the pounding of my heart in my voice. "I'm… not well."
A lie. But not really.
Because in that moment, my heart was drowning in a thousand unnamed emotions, and the only thing keeping me afloat was the girl sitting beside me—silent and storm-eyed.
I drove with no music on. No radio. Just the sound of tires humming on the asphalt and the occasional breath she took when her thoughts got too loud. My house wasn't far, but every second in that silence stretched like warm honey—slow, sticky, pulling us closer to something we both hadn't dared to name.
I parked outside the apartment.
Stepping out, I moved to her side and opened the door.
She stepped out like she'd stepped out of a dream—barely making a sound, her eyes sweeping across the quiet neighborhood before meeting mine again.
I took her inside, my hand gently guiding her by the small of her back.
Once we were in the living room, she let go of a breath she must've been holding for years and sank into the couch. The cushions hugged her like an old friend. I stood in front of her, unsure of what to say.
But she didn't wait for words.
She looked at me—really looked at me—and I swear I saw something in her crack wide open.
And then she moved.
She got up so suddenly it caught me off guard, and before I could breathe, she closed the distance between us and pressed her lips against mine.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't shy.
It was heat and ache and the sound of all her walls crumbling at once.
She kissed me like she was trying to find a home between my lips.
I didn't hesitate. My hands found her waist, her back, her skin. And when I kissed her back, it wasn't just passion—it was a promise. A silent vow that I wouldn't let her carry her pain alone again.
I lifted her up in one smooth motion, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, our mouths still tangled in each other's longing.
I carried her down the hallway to my room, and it felt like I was carrying not just her body—but her heartbreak, her fears, her trembling hope.
I laid her gently on the edge of the bed.
But she pulled me down with her.
Our kisses deepened—slow, aching, exploring. Her fingers danced along my spine. Mine ran through her hair like I was learning the texture of poetry.
She whispered my name like it was a secret she'd been hiding from herself.
I whispered hers like a prayer I didn't deserve to say out loud.
Time slowed. The world faded.
It was just us—two broken souls trying to breathe life into each other in a language only we understood.
And when we finally paused, our foreheads resting against one another, hearts racing, breaths shallow, she smiled. Not a wide smile—but one of quiet surrender.
Then she whispered, "Thank you… for seeing me."
I kissed her once more—soft and lingering, like I was afraid it would be the last time.
But she didn't disappear.
Not this time.
She stayed.
At least for tonight.
She lay beneath me, not in submission, but in surrender—the kind of surrender that is chosen, not taken.
Her fingertips traced lazy, unsure paths along my jawline, her eyes locked with mine as if searching for something deeper than flesh—something eternal. And I let her look. I let her see every scar, every flaw, every buried softness I had long tried to hide from the world.
I kissed her again—slower now, less urgent. As though I had all the time in the universe and none of it mattered except for this moment. My lips brushed hers like a silent promise, one filled with patience and reverence.
Her breath caught, not in fear but in wonder, as my hands caressed her sides—not to possess her, but to memorize her. To remind her that she was more than wanted—she was cherished. That her body wasn't a battlefield, but a garden. Sacred. Alive. Worth adoring with gentle awe.
She touched my face and whispered, "You make me feel like I matter."
I paused.
My forehead rested against hers, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. "You do. Not just now. Always."
Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she didn't look away. And I didn't wipe them.
She let them fall.
And I let them land on my skin like rain on dry earth.
Slowly, I pressed kisses along her collarbone, her shoulders, her throat—each one deliberate, each one a soft anthem of devotion. She arched into me, not for attention, but to feel closer, to anchor herself in the warmth we were building between us.
We undressed one another not in haste, but in reverence. Like unwrapping something fragile, something long-lost and finally found.
When our bodies met fully, there was no rush. No demand.
Just quiet breaths, tangled hands, and the rhythm of two hearts learning to move as one.
We made love in whispers—whispers of breath, of touch, of small smiles between kisses. My hands mapped her like scripture, hers clung to me like the edge of a dream she didn't want to wake from.
And in those sacred minutes, there was no past. No betrayal. No ache.
Only her.
Only me.
Only us—folded into each other like verses in the same poem.
When it was over, we didn't speak.
She curled into my chest, her fingers tracing invisible circles on my skin. I held her there, one arm wrapped protectively around her, the other stroking her hair as if I could soothe all the years of loneliness she'd buried deep inside.
The room was quiet, but our hearts weren't.
They were loud—singing a song only we could hear.
And as sleep slowly found her, I whispered against her hair:
"You're safe here, Lylah. With me."
And for the first time, she let herself believe it.
To be continue....