The guest room was luxurious. Sleek, dark wood panels lined the walls, and a king-size bed stood like a throne beneath a steel chandelier. It should've been comfortable—hell, it was more space than Jace had ever had in his life—but sleep didn't come easy that night.
Not because the bed was too soft. Not because of the storm still whispering through the window. But because he could still feel her eyes on him.
Elara Quinn. Landlady. Ice queen. Beautiful. Untouchable.
And tonight, she'd watched him.
Not for long. Not enough to call it anything sinister. But long enough for his blood to heat.
She hadn't flinched when he pointed out the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra under that loose silk robe. She hadn't denied watching him shirtless in her kitchen, or tried to hide it.
She wanted him to know. And that made it worse.
Or better.
He turned on his side and stared at the ceiling. Was it intentional? A test? Power play? Maybe it was just curiosity, and he was reading too much into it.
But if that was the case, why had she smirked?
Why had she looked at him the way she did—as if she were peeling layers from his skin with just her eyes?
He finally drifted off sometime before dawn, and when he opened his eyes again, the room was flooded with gold morning light.
And something was… different.
The air was still. Too still. The way it gets when you feel someone standing near you.
He sat up slowly. Heart pounding.
No sound. No movement. No Elara in sight.
But the bedroom door was slightly ajar. He was sure he'd closed it the night before.
Was he imagining things?
Or had she…?
He rubbed his face and shook the thought from his head. If she'd come in, it was probably to check something. Maybe she was just being cautious. Maybe she didn't trust him alone in her space yet.
Fair enough.
He headed for the shower.
The bathroom was just as elegant as the rest of the penthouse—black granite walls, walk-in glass stall, rainfall head, and soft lighting that made his reflection look cleaner than he felt.
He stood under the stream, eyes closed, water running down his back.
And all he could think about was her—how her silk robe had clung to her curves, how her voice cut through silence like a blade wrapped in honey.
What kind of woman let a stranger into her home, laid down rules like a prison warden, and then watched him in the middle of the night?
What kind of woman smirked when challenged, but didn't deny her attraction?
His body responded just thinking about it.
He cursed under his breath, turned the water colder, and leaned into the stream.
When he entered the kitchen dressed in a fresh black T-shirt and jeans, Elara was already there. Perfect posture, silk blouse buttoned to her throat, dark pants hugging long legs. A porcelain cup of coffee steamed in her hand.
She glanced at him briefly. "You're late."
"It's 8:07."
"I said kitchen opens at eight," she replied, sipping. "Not when you roll in."
He smirked, opening the fridge. "You want me to set an alarm for 7:55 next time?"
"No," she said. "I want you to respect the routine."
He turned to her, eyes amused. "You're really into rules, huh?"
"I value structure."
"Right. Structure, silence, no guests, no shirtless wandering—"
"You weren't wandering," she interrupted, calmly. "You were posing."
He paused. "Excuse me?"
Her lips twitched. "You knew I was there."
"And you still watched."
Her gaze met his. "I did."
The moment cracked like ice under pressure.
He stepped closer. She didn't flinch.
"I'm not the shy, silent type," he said. "If you want me to pretend I don't notice you staring, you'll be disappointed."
"I don't want anything from you, Mr. Carter."
"Then why offer me a free place to stay?"
Her eyes sharpened. "Because I needed quiet. And you looked like someone who needed a place badly enough to follow the rules."
He leaned against the counter, folding his arms. "And what happens when I break them?"
A beat.
She set her cup down gently. "Then you leave. Quietly. No second chances."
Something told him she meant it.
But something else—some tiny flicker in her expression—said she wouldn't push him out that easily.
He spent the rest of the day in his room, scrolling through old emails, half-heartedly applying for jobs he wouldn't get, and searching for gigs that didn't care about resumes. Freelance deliveries. Lifting work. Maybe night security.
At some point, he heard Elara on the phone in the hallway. Her voice was low, crisp. Every word felt controlled.
"No. If they breach the clause again, we'll terminate the contract. I don't tolerate delays. Not in my building."
Building?
Was she a landlord of this entire place?
He thought she was just a tenant in the penthouse. Now she sounded like she ownedthe damn tower.
Just who the hell was she?
That night, after a silent dinner she didn't invite him to share, he walked into the living room. She was curled on the long sofa with a book in hand—some old leather-bound hardcover that looked like it belonged in a collector's vault.
He stood at the edge of the space. "You always read alone?"
She didn't look up. "Solitude is underrated."
He chuckled. "You say that like you've tried company and hated it."
"I've survived company."
She turned the page without looking at him.
"You ever think of trying something less… guarded?" he asked, stepping closer.
"I tried. Once. I nearly lost everything."
Her voice was sharp now. Not angry—just… edged. Like something bitter beneath polished steel.
"You ask too many questions," she said.
"You said no questions about you. You didn't say anything about general conversation."
Her eyes lifted from the book. Calm. Piercing.
He sat down on the other end of the couch.
A stretch of silence passed between them.
"Most people would've kicked me out by now," he said.
"Most people aren't me."
He tilted his head. "Then who are you, Elara?"
"I'm the one who decides if you get to stay."
Later that night, Jace lay in bed again. The door closed. Lights off.
Still, his heart thudded.
Not from fear. But from something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Anticipation.
She was a riddle. A contradiction. Cold and collected by day, but haunting his thoughts by night.
He imagined her walking past his door again. Standing there. Watching.
And then—he heard it.
A soft creak outside the room.
Footsteps. Bare. Light.
His breath caught.
She was there.
He could feel it.
His pulse roared in his ears, but he didn't move. Didn't speak. Just… waited.
The door didn't open.
But the presence remained.
A full minute passed. Then another.
And finally, the soft sound of her steps fading away.
He exhaled—slow and shaky.
Whatever game she was playing, it was working.
And he had no intention of losing.