Chapter 32
Mack leaned back in the driver's seat, one hand gripping the steering wheel so tight the leather creaked. He'd watched her small figure disappear through the door, watched the way her shoulders hunched like she was carrying the whole damn world.
And then she shut him out.
He blew out a breath, dragging a hand over his jaw. He'd promised her space—but every instinct in him screamed to break that promise. To storm inside, haul her into his arms, and remind her she didn't get to push him away. Not anymore.
But he didn't. Instead, he shifted the SUV into park and settled in like he was setting up camp. His eyes flicked to her lit window upstairs. He could imagine her moving around inside—stripping, showering, her hair dripping down her back. The thought tightened something low in his gut.
He hated that he wasn't the one in there. Hated that she was alone when all he wanted was to wrap himself around her until she stopped looking so damn breakable.
His phone buzzed with a message from his best friend, asking if he was coming out tonight. Mack smirked and set it face down on the console. "Not a chance," he muttered. "I've got better things to do."
Through the glass, he caught the faint glow of her laptop screen. She was curled up on her bed, typing, her focus sharp and untouchable. He admired that about her—hell, it drove him crazy. She didn't need him. Not for survival, not for happiness. She was building her own empire with nothing but her words and her fire.
And still, he wanted to own every piece of her.
Mack leaned forward, resting his forearms on the wheel, eyes locked on that glowing rectangle of her window. His chest ached with a hunger that wasn't just physical. It was territorial, primal. The kind of thing that didn't fade, no matter how much she tried to shove him away.
"Write all you want, angel," he murmured, his voice low in the cab. "But don't think for a second you can write me out."
He settled in deeper, one arm draped over the seat, gaze fixed on her window like it was the only star in the night sky. He'd wait as long as it took. Hours. Days. Forever if he had to.
Because she was his. She just didn't know it yet.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The first thing Viola noticed when she stirred awake was the faint ache in her wrist from falling asleep on top of her laptop. She'd meant to just jot down one more chapter, maybe polish a paragraph or two. Instead, exhaustion had pulled her under mid-sentence.
The second thing she noticed was the quiet. Too quiet.
She pushed her tangled hair out of her face and shuffled toward the window, tugging the curtains aside with a yawn.
And froze.
Parked right where she'd left him last night, Mack's SUV sat like a shadow at the curb. She blinked, convinced her sleepy brain was imagining it. But no—there he was. Reclined in the driver's seat, one long arm hooked casually over the wheel, head tilted back against the headrest. His eyes weren't closed. He wasn't sleeping.
He was watching her window.
Her stomach flipped, a traitorous warmth rushing through her chest and down, pooling low. He'd stayed. All night. She should've been annoyed—furious, even—that he couldn't respect boundaries. But instead, her throat tightened.
Because no one had ever stayed for her before. Not when things got hard. Not when she pushed them away.
Mack lifted his chin, like he'd felt her eyes on him, and when their gazes locked through the glass, his mouth curved into that devastating half-smile. Possessive. Knowing.
The kind of smile that said, You're mine, and I'm not going anywhere.
Viola dropped the curtain with a frustrated huff, pressing her back to the wall, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest. He was infuriating. He was relentless. He was dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with fists or violence—and everything to do with how easily he slipped past the walls she'd spent years building.
Down in the street, Mack's grin widened. He leaned forward, resting both hands on the wheel, and muttered to himself, "Morning, angel. Get used to it. I'm not leaving."
A sharp knock echoed through her apartment a few minutes later. Viola jumped, nearly sending her laptop sliding off the bed.
No. Absolutely not. He wouldn't—
Another knock. Firmer this time.
"Viola," his deep voice rumbled from the other side, calm, almost smug. "Open the door."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She padded barefoot down the hall, pausing in front of the door with her hand on the knob. She told herself she wasn't going to open it. That she'd tell him through the wood to leave her alone.
Then the smell hit her. Rich, dark roasted coffee. And something sweet—like cinnamon.
She cracked the door open just enough to glare at him. He was standing there in jeans and a dark t-shirt, a tray in his hands. Two steaming cups and a small paper bag sat on it. His mouth pulled into that infuriating smile.
"Good morning," Mack said smoothly, holding the tray out like it was an offering. "Thought you could use this. Didn't seem like you slept much."
Viola scowled, but her stomach betrayed her by growling at the same time.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, snatching the tray from him. "You stalk me from my curb all night, then bribe me with coffee and pastries?"