The midnight air was thick, cooling into a sharp, oceanic chill that seeped through the floorboards. Upstairs, the king-sized bed had become a desert of silk—vast, cold, and lonely. Hannah's stomach let out a hollow, painful growl, a reminder that her pride hadn't provided any nourishment during her day-long hunger strike.
She moved like a ghost, her bare feet silent on the cold marble of the grand staircase. She didn't dare turn on the lights; the darkness was her only ally, a shroud that hid her shame and her hunger. The house was a labyrinth of shadows, the moonlight cutting silver ribbons through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the gallery.
As she reached the kitchen, the scent of expensive floor wax and distant sea salt gave way to the faint, lingering aroma of the dinner she had refused. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Every creak of the house sounded like a footstep.
She navigated the darkened kitchen by touch, her fingers skimming the cold quartz of the center island. She was heading for the pantry, her mind focused on anything—a crust of bread, a piece of fruit—to silence the gnawing in her gut.
Then, her foot caught on something heavy.
"Ah—!"
Hannah stumbled, her hands flailing in the dark. She landed on something solid, warm, and yielding. She sat back heavily, her weight supported by a pair of powerful thighs.
Before she could scream, two arms—heavy and hot—wrapped around her waist like iron bands, pulling her flush against a broad, solid chest.
The air around her was saturated with the sharp, oaky scent of expensive bourbon and the raw, musky heat of a man who had been sitting in the dark for hours.
"You really should stop doing this, Hannah," a voice rumbled against the nape of her neck.
It was Dermin. His voice was thick, honeyed with alcohol, and vibrating with a jagged, low-frequency sorrow that made her skin prickle.
"You keep dragging yourself into my arms," he whispered, his breath hot and smelling of spirits against her ear. "First the bed... now the kitchen. I thought I'd have to control myself tonight, but you make it so... difficult."
"Dermin, let go!" Hannah hissed, her hands scrambling to find purchase on his forearms. She tried to lunge forward, but he only tightened his grip, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his stubble grazing her sensitive skin.
"Don't move," he groaned, the sound vibrating through her entire body. "Just for a moment. The house is too quiet, Hannah. It's been too quiet for years. Help me... help me remove this loneliness. It's eating me alive."
He wasn't fighting her; he was pleading, but the plea was wrapped in a terrifying physical dominance. He began to trail his lips along the line of her shoulder, his touch soft yet demanding.
"You have no idea," he murmured, his voice dropping to a carnal, velvet rasp. "How many nights I spent imagining the curve of your waist. How many hours I wasted picturing the way your skin would feel under my palms. You're so soft... so warm. Like a fever I never want to break."
Hannah froze. She had never been spoken to like this. The men in prison were blunt, violent, or invisible. Dermin's words were different—they were a slow-acting poison, a seductive caress that started to melt the ice she had spent a decade freezing around her heart. She felt a traitorous heat bloom in her lower stomach, a pull of gravity she didn't recognize.
Dermin's hands began to move.
Slowly, with an agonizing deliberation that made her breath hitch, he slid his palms beneath the silk of her robe. He traced the flat, trembling expanse of her stomach, his fingers splayed wide.
"You're perfect," he breathed, his voice trailing off as he began to move his hands upward.
Hannah's heart was a trapped bird, battering against her ribs. She wasn't wearing a bra beneath the thin silk, and as Dermin's large, warm hands glided over her ribs, she felt her lungs seize. He moved with the confidence of a man who had memorized a map he hadn't seen in years.
His thumbs brushed against the underside of her breasts, and Hannah let out a small, fractured gasp.
"Dermin... please..." it was meant to be a protest, but it came out as a broken plea.
He didn't listen. His hands moved higher, the rough callouses of his palms contrasting with the extreme sensitivity of her skin. When the edge of his thumb grazed the tip of her nipple through the silk, a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity shot through her. A soft, involuntary moan started to form in the back of her throat—a sound of surrender that terrified her more than the darkness.
The sound of her own voice snapped the spell.
What am I doing?
The memory of the prison bars, the cold floor, and the decade of silence rushed back like a tidal wave, dousing the heat.
"No!"
Hannah yanked herself forward, her movements frantic and jagged. She scrambled off his lap, her feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. She backed away into the shadows of the kitchen island, her chest heaving, her robe disheveled.
Dermin let out a low, guttural sound—half-growl, half-sob. He tried to stand, his tall frame swaying dangerously in the dark. He reached a hand out toward her, his fingers grasping at the empty air.
"Hannah... come back..."
"Stop!" she shouted, her voice shaking with a mix of fury and lingering, unwanted desire. "Don't you dare come any closer, Dermin! Stay right there! If you take one more step, I'll scream loud enough to wake the entire estate! I'll tell everyone exactly what kind of 'gentleman' you are!"
Dermin froze. He slumped back into the chair he had been sitting in, the shadows swallowing his face. He looked broken.
"I just wanted to feel something other than the cold," he whispered, his voice cracking.
"Then go find your 'clean' wife Bianca!" Hannah spat, her eyes stinging with tears. "Don't try to find warmth in the woman you ruined."
She didn't wait for a response. She turned and fled the kitchen, her heart racing as she scrambled back up the stairs, her stomach growling from hunger.