Sabien's hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. "Do you have candles? A flashlight?"
"Somewhere," I say, trying to remember where I put them after the last outage. "Maybe in the?—"
"No." His voice cuts through the darkness, decisive. "You're staying with me."
It's not a suggestion. Not even a question. Just a statement of fact.
"I can't impose?—"
"You're not imposing. I'm insisting." His hand slides up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheek. Even in the darkness, I feel the intensity of his gaze. "Pack what you need for tonight. The power could be out for hours."
I should protest. Should stand my ground. Tell this man I barely know that I can handle a power outage on my own. Instead, I find myself nodding, whispering, "Okay."
I use my phone's flashlight to grab pajamas, a change of clothes, and basic toiletries, stuffing them into my worn backpack. Sabien watches silently, a dark figure leaning against my doorframe. Protective. Possessive.
Back in his car, I clutch my backpack to my chest like a shield. What am I doing? Going home with a stranger—a dangerous, powerful stranger who's made it clear he wants me. Yet somehow, I feel safer with him than I have in years.
We drive through the glittering city to an area I've only seen in magazines. The car pulls into a private underground garage beneath a sleek high-rise that seems to touch the clouds.
"You live here?" I ask, unable to hide my awe.
A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "I own the building."
Of course he does.
The elevator requires his fingerprint and a code. When the doors open, they reveal not a hallway but directly into his penthouse—a vast, open space of glass and steel and warm wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase Manhattan spread out below like a carpet of jewels.
"Oh my God," I breathe, stepping inside. The place is insane—luxury everywhere, but tasteful, masculine. No ostentatious gold fixtures or tacky art. Just clean lines, comfortable-looking furniture that probably costs more than my entire education, and strategic lighting that highlights original artwork on the walls.
"Make yourself at home," Sabien says, shrugging off his suit jacket. "Would you like a drink? Water? Wine?"
"Water is fine," I say, still taking it all in. "This place is incredible."
He disappears into what must be the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. As I take it, our fingers brush. That same electric current shoots up my arm, making my breath catch.
"Thank you."
"Let me show you around." His hand finds the small of my back again, guiding me through his home. His touch is gentle but firm, like he's both leading and supporting me. "Kitchen. Living room. Office through there."
Each room is more beautiful than the last. Modern but warm. Masculine but not cold.
"Guest room is here," he says, opening a door to a stunning bedroom with its own bathroom. "You can sleep here tonight."
The 'can' rather than 'will' doesn't escape my notice. An option, not a requirement.
He guides me back to the main living area, to those incredible windows. The city stretches out below us, a sea of lights. I feel like I'm floating above the world, untouchable.
Sabien steps close behind me, not quite touching but near enough that I feel his heat, smell his cologne. My body responds instantly—heart racing, skin prickling with awareness, a now-familiar ache building between my thighs.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he says, his voice low near my ear.
"Yes," I whisper, not sure if I'm talking about the view or him.
I feel his eyes on me, watching my reflection in the glass. I gather my courage and turn to face him. We're so close now. Too close. Not close enough.
"Why did you save me?" I ask, the question that's been burning in me all night.
He studies me for a long moment, his expression intense. Then he reaches up, brushes my hair back from my face with a gentleness that contrasts with his powerful frame.