Chapter 23: Yours, Mine, Ours
When he finally stepped out of the shower, steam billowing around him, Eva was waiting in the bedroom. She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes watching him like a predator sizing up its prey.
"You've taken over the room already," he commented dryly, a hint of humor in his voice.
"I'm not just taking the room," she said, her tone low and deliberate. "I'm taking you."
And just like that, everything else faded. Nothing mattered but her. Nothing at all.
Water slid down his chest in lazy rivulets, catching in the grooves of his muscles, dripping from his hair. He didn't move at first, just let her look at him—just let her have him with her eyes.
"Only when it's worth the trouble," she said.
He watched her walk until she was standing in front of him. His pulse thudded low and deliberate in his throat.
"You think I'm trouble?" he asked.
She reached out and ran a single finger down his chest, where water still clung to his skin.
"You're chaos, Kian. The kind men try to survive. The kind they never do."
He didn't answer. He couldn't—not when she tilted her head and let her hand drop to his side, brushing against the edge of the towel.
But then she stepped back, retreating toward the bed like a shadow, like temptation itself. She sat at the edge and crossed her legs, unbothered, in control, and impossibly calm.
"You let me have the spare room," she said, voice light. "That was your first mistake."
"Was it?" he asked, stepping closer, body still radiating heat from the shower.
She tilted her head again. "Men always think they're giving something up when they're already mine."
That made something in him twitch. A quiet pulse beneath the skin. She said it like a truth. Not a question.
His jaw tightened. "You seem to know men well."
Her brow ticked up slightly—just enough to acknowledge the jealousy in his voice.
"You sound jealous," she said, amused.
"Maybe I am," he said. "You're my first. But it sounds like I'm not yours."
Eva's face didn't change immediately, but her eyes softened. A quiet shift, barely visible. Then, just as quietly:
"You're my first too."
That pulled him up short.
"I… I always felt disgusted by men," she said, tone even, but quieter than before. "Never thought I'd want one near me. Never thought I'd find someone I didn't want to destroy."
Her gaze didn't waver. "But you're different. You're the first person I've ever let touch me. The first one I've kissed. Just like I'm your first."
The words sank in like ink staining silk. Permanent. Unshakable.
He moved to the closet, pulled out soft black pants, dragged them on with the slow, practiced grace of someone who had nothing to prove. She watched the whole time, lounging like she'd lived there for years. Like the room had always been hers and he'd simply been borrowing it.
Her gaze roamed unashamedly. She didn't look away when his fingers dragged the fabric up his legs, or when he stood straight and adjusted the waistband, water still clinging to his skin. He didn't hurry. Didn't hide. If anything, he slowed down under her stare.
"Have you made a list yet?" he asked, tossing a glance her way as he reached for a clean shirt.
Her brow lifted slightly. "Of what?"
"The things you're taking."
She smirked, and something in her eyes glinted like a blade. "Don't need a list. It's all mine anyway."
A beat of silence.
"Even me?" he said, voice low, eyes on her.
Eva unfolded her legs and stood. She moved closer, again, but slower this time. Like a hunter circling a choice kill.
"You've always been mine," she said, stepping into his space until he felt the heat of her breath against his collarbone. "You just didn't know it."
She pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw, sharp and sweet. Her teeth followed, grazing just enough to draw a quiet inhale from him.
"I'll even let you keep wearing this shirt," she murmured. "It suits you."
He huffed out a laugh, not moving an inch. "Generous."
She stepped back, turned slightly toward the mirror—and then glanced at him over her shoulder.
The view made his chest tighten. There was something about seeing her there—in his house, in his shirt, in his space—that struck a nerve he hadn't known was exposed.