Chapter 8(Viola's POV)
The kitchen door slammed shut behind him, and the air instantly felt ten degrees lighter. But Viola's chest? That still weighed like a goddamn stone.
She stood there, frozen, heart lodged in her throat ever since Mack had stepped between her and those drunk assholes. She didn't need saving. She hated the idea of being saved. But the way he looked at her afterwards…
He hadn't been rescuing her. He'd been claiming her.
And God help her, she hadn't hated it. Not even a little.
"Girl," Samantha hissed, appearing beside her, eyes wide. "You're about five seconds away from combusting. That man's got you steaming."
"I'm fine," Viola muttered, trying to keep her voice level. She shoved a hand into her hair and yanked it back into something resembling order. Her fingers were trembling. She dropped them fast.
"Mmhmm. 'Fine' is how women look right before they start undressing with their eyes," Sam said, smirking. "You looked like you were one second away from pinning him against the fridge."
"Can we not?" Viola growled, heat blooming in her cheeks. She wasn't in the mood for teasing. Not when her body still thrummed from the energy he'd left behind, like an echo she couldn't shake.
Sam grinned, clearly unbothered, and strolled back to her tables like she hadn't just thrown gasoline on an already blazing fire.
Viola turned toward the sink and gripped the counter, the cool metal biting into her palms. She welcomed it. Anything to anchor her. Anything to stop the rising tide inside her chest.
Why did it feel like Mack had walked in and ripped something wide open in her?
Something she'd locked down long ago — tightly, securely, and with good reason.
She hated how tall he was. How solid. How calm, like chaos didn't rattle him — it answered to him.
She hated that when he looked at her, it wasn't with pity or admiration or lust. It was hunger. Focused. Quiet. Absolute.
And worse? Some dark, desperate part of her wanted to be consumed.
She'd clawed her way out of the wreckage once. After the betrayal. After the divorce. After her ex traded her in for a woman with half her age and none of her edge. She rebuilt herself with armour — independence, control, bite.
But Mack…He didn't see armour and flinch.
He saw a challenge and smiled.
He didn't want soft. He wanted fire. The sharp edges. The mouth that talked back and the woman behind it who didn't yield.And the part of her that had gone cold over the years? It was warming. Cracking. Opening.
Dangerous.
She dried her hands and looked down at her palms. Still trembling. Still tingling.
God, she could still smell him — that mix of musk, leather, and something darker. Something male. Something that made her knees threaten to give. Like a storm had walked through the kitchen and whispered: You feel that? That's mine.
"I'm not getting involved," she whispered to herself.
Not again. Not after what it cost her last time. She didn't just lose love — she lost trust. She lost herself.
But later that night, curled beneath too-thin sheets, staring at the ceiling while the shadows moved like ghosts across the walls, she couldn't stop her fingers from tracing the edges of her collarbone, her stomach, the space between her thighs. Not imagining her ex. Not some faceless fantasy.
Mack.His voice. His breath was against her ear. His hands where no man had touched her in months.
And when she finally drifted to sleep, her dreams didn't take her away.
They pulled her straight into the fire.
(Still Viola's POV)
The apartment was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that lets thoughts run wild.
Viola padded barefoot across the living room, robe cinched around her waist, tea steaming in one hand. The wind rattled against the windows, the candles flickered on her shelf, and somewhere in the background, a soft, scratchy playlist played a jazz cover of something she couldn't name.
She didn't want to admit it — not even to herself — but she'd been waiting.
Not consciously. Not really.
But every time her phone buzzed that day, her breath had caught. And every time it didn't buzz, something inside her clenched.
Her phone sat silently on the table now, screen black, mocking her.
She wasn't even sure what she wanted. A message? A warning? A line she could use to shut this down before it spiralled?
No. She knew exactly what she wanted. And that was the problem.
Buzz.
She flinched. Nearly dropped her tea. Her phone skittered across the table.
Her stomach flipped.
MACK.
His name alone made her skin prickle. She stared at the screen for three whole seconds before she slid it open.
[MACK]: Still up, Vixen?
Her lips parted. Vixen?
Before she could respond, another text came in.
[MACK]: I know you are. You don't sleep early. You're probably pacing in that robe you pretend isn't s*xy, sipping tea, and pretending you don't want me.
Her breath caught.
She looked down.
Bare legs. Oversized robe. Loose messy bun.Exactly as he said.
How the hell did he know that?
Her fingers hovered.
She shouldn't respond. She shouldn't entertain this.
But something primal in her thumbed through the rules, found them lacking and decided: Screw it.
[VIOLA]: You don't know me.
The reply came so fast it felt like he'd been waiting.
[MACK]: Baby, I know how you move. How you tense when I walk into a room. How your mouth says "Get lost," but your eyes ask what I'll do if you don't.
She sank onto the couch. Her skin was flushed. Her tea was forgotten. Her world narrowed into the weight of his words.
[MACK]: I'm not asking for permission. I'm just letting you know. I'm coming for you. Maybe not tonight.Maybe not tomorrow.But soon.
Her breath shuddered.
[MACK]: Don't lock the door when I do.
Viola's fingers moved on instinct.
[VIOLA]: That sounds like a threat.
The reply came like a spark to dry tinder.
[MACK]: No, Viola. It's a promise.
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in a long, long time…
She wanted to believe him.