Chapter 1- Fourteen Nights
She should have been afraid of him.
Instead, she was lying beneath him, trying not to say his name.
The problem was—
she didn't know it.
His mouth moved slowly along her throat, and she gripped his shoulders hard enough to feel muscle tense beneath her fingers.
"Stranger," she whispered.
He stopped.
For one breathless second, the room was silent except for her uneven breathing.
Then he lifted his head.
The look in his eyes made her stomach tighten.
"Don't call me that now."
A smile touched her lips despite herself.
"Then tell me your name."
"No."
She laughed softly.
His hand tightened at her waist.
The laughter disappeared.
"You think this is funny?"
"You're the one who keeps coming back."
His eyes darkened.
That was true.
He had come back.
Again.
And again.
Every night for two weeks, like a man who had forgotten he was supposed to leave.
Like a man who had forgotten why he had come in the first place.
She reached for his face.
The scar near his jaw caught beneath her thumb.
"What happened here?"
He caught her wrist.
She held his gaze.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then she whispered, "You always do that."
"What?"
"Act like you're going to leave whenever I ask you something real."
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But she had learned him in fourteen nights.
She knew the difference between his silence.
The dangerous one.
The angry one.
And this one.
The one that meant she had somehow touched something he kept buried.
So she pulled him closer.
"Stay."
His jaw tightened.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then explain it to me."
"I can't."
"Won't."
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
She knew she had won before he kissed her.
This time there was nothing gentle about it.
She gasped against him, fingers tangling in his hair as he pulled her closer, as though distance between them had suddenly become an insult.
The world outside her bedroom disappeared.
The locked door.
The rain against the window.
The life she had before he climbed through it.
All gone.
There was only him.
The stranger who never gave her his name.
The stranger who appeared after midnight.
The stranger who never stayed until morning—
except when he forgot himself.
Like tonight.
Her breath caught when his forehead rested against hers.
"Tell me to stop."
She opened her eyes.
He was watching her.
Waiting.
And for the first time since he had entered her life, she understood something dangerous.
He might be capable of anything.
Her fingers had curled into his shirt when it happened — a strange, hot pulse just beneath her skin, gone as fast as it came. Like something in her had briefly opened its eyes and then, just as quickly, thought better of it.
She didn't mention it. She told herself later it had been her pulse, nothing more. But some small, old part of her — the part that still flinched at full moons for reasons she'd never once examined — knew that wasn't quite true.
"I would have," she whispered, "if I wanted you to."
His restraint broke.
And by morning, she would have bruises on her pride, his name on her lips, and absolutely no intention of apologising for either.
He might be capable of anything.
But with her—
he would stop.
If she asked.
That knowledge did something reckless to her.
So instead of answering, she pulled him back to her.
His eyes closed.
A low breath escaped him.
"You're going to regret this."
She smiled.
"Tomorrow?"
His expression hardened.
"Eventually."
Then the lights went out.
And by the time the rain stopped falling, she would have forgotten every reason she had for being careful.
She woke alone.
Again.
For a few seconds, she stared at the empty space beside her.
The sheets were still warm.
His shirt was gone from the chair.
The window was open.
She groaned and pulled the blanket over her face.
"One day," she muttered, "I'm going to lock that stupid window."
A voice came from the darkness.
"Do that."
She screamed.
He was sitting in the chair beside the window.
Fully dressed.
Watching her.
She threw a pillow at him.
He caught it.
"You are insane."
"You left the window open."
"I thought you left!"
"I was considering it."
She glared at him.
"Why do you always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're threatening me and flirting with me at the same time."
His mouth almost curved.
Almost.
"Maybe I am."
She stared.
He stood.
Immediately, something inside her changed.
Because she knew that posture.
He was leaving.
Again.
She sat up.
"Don't."
He looked at her.
There was something wrong in his eyes.
Something she had never seen before.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For her.
Her heart slowed.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
Silence.
She pushed the blanket aside and stood.
"Hey."
He moved toward the window.
She followed.
"You're scaring me."
His hand paused on the frame.
Then, without turning around, he said:
"Lock your doors."
Her smile disappeared.
"What?"
"Don't open them unless you know who's outside."
She stared at him.
"Why?"
No answer.
"Who are you?"
He turned.
And suddenly she understood that fourteen nights had taught her almost nothing about the man she had allowed into her bed.
She didn't know his name.
His family.
Where he lived.
What he did.
Or why he sometimes woke from sleep reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
"Who are you?" she asked again.
His eyes moved over her face.
Slowly.
Like he was trying to memorise it.
Then he stepped closer.
His fingers touched her cheek.
"Hide."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
"Don't find me."
She laughed nervously.
He didn't.
"You're joking."
"Hide."
Her heart began to pound.
"From who?"
For the first time since she had met him—
he looked helpless.
That frightened her more than anything.
"If anyone asks you about your past," he said quietly, "you remember nothing."
"I already remember nothing before the orphanage."
His hand dropped.
Something flickered across his face.
Pain.
She frowned.
"Why would you say that?"
He backed toward the window.
"Don't trust anyone."
"Wait!"
He climbed onto the frame.
She caught his wrist.
"Are you coming back?"
Silence.
"Stranger."
His gaze dropped to her hand around his wrist.
Then to her face.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
"Forget me."
She shook her head.
"Tell me your name."
He pulled free.
"Forget me."
Then he was gone.
And this time—
he didn't come back.
Until two weeks later, when an email arrived and reminded her that before the orphanage...
before the locked doors...
before the man without a name...
She had belonged to someone.
Someone powerful enough to leave her an empire.
Someone dangerous enough to have died trying to keep her alive.
