Chapter 5: The Mirror

The loft was a skeleton of brick and steel, its raw edges bared beneath the skylight’s pale wash. April’s glow glinted off tools and half-wrought sculptures—Rowan’s chaos, his truth. He stood at the counter, pouring red wine into chipped glasses, the tart liquid echoing the edge he teetered on. Thirty-eight, unraveling.

Elise was here.

Her presence, a live wire in his shadowed den. Lace traded for a sweater and skirt that hugged curves he’d memorized in the dark. She’d risen in the club, knelt and stood. Her trust—a blade that sliced his guard. And now she was in his space. Not to sculpt. But to strip. To see.

She perched on the sofa, legs crossed. Her gaze roamed—gold-flecked, sharp, a hunter’s curiosity he felt in his bones. Behind her, a steel sculpture twisted in shadow. Unfinished. Rust biting its edges. He’d left it that way for months. Tonight, it looked like truth.

His pulse thudded—not just for her body, though his cock stirred at her nearness—but for what she might see. What he might bare. The hall had cracked her. The private room had steadied her. And now, her strength mirrored his: a boy beaten down, betrayed, clawing power from ash.

“Wine?” he asked, handing her a glass. Fingers grazed. A spark that coiled heat in his gut.

“Thanks,” she said, soft. Steady. She sipped. Her eyes caught on his forearm. Sleeve rolled high. The scar, pale and jagged.

He hadn’t thought before baring it. Habit, after the club.

Now her stare pinned him.

Her cheeks flushed. Her glass trembled.

“What happened?” she asked. Leaning closer. Sweater stretching over breasts he’d seen strain lace. Her voice wasn’t pity. It was hunger. A plea to know.

He set the glass down. The clink sharp.

“A lover,” he said, voice rough. He rolled the sleeve higher. “Leo. Stole my work. Sold it. We fought. He cut me.”

The words spilled. Raw. A vault cracking. His father’s fists. Mara’s silence. A youth of loss.

Her breath hitched. Eyes widened—not with fear, but something fiercer. Her fingers lifted. Hovered.

“Oh,” she breathed.

It struck harder than Leo’s blade.

She didn’t ask more. Didn’t press. Just looked. Like someone who knew how silence could become a wound.

“Touch it,” he murmured.

She did. Cool. Hesitant. Her fingers traced the edge. His skin burned. His cock tightened. A throb he couldn’t will away.

Power shifted.

Hers now.

Her flush deepened. “That’s awful,” she said. Her voice shook—not with weakness, but with fire.

“He hurt you,” she added. Thumb stroking the scar’s end.

“I don’t trust easy,” he said. Low. His breath brushed her cheek. Cedar mixing with jasmine.

Her hand stilled. Then slid up his arm. Slow. A climb that made his pulse race.

“You’re trusting me,” she said. Voice a thread. Trembling. Certain.

“I am.” He lifted his hand to her wrist—not to stop. To feel.

Her pulse beat beneath his fingers.

She smiled. Faint. Fierce. Her thigh pressed into his.

His shoulder twitched. Reflex. Old instinct: pull away. Close off. Rebuild the wall.

But her touch didn’t demand. It waited. Warm. Sure.

And he stayed.

The loft’s quiet cradled them. The skylight’s glow a witness to his fracture—not steel, but flesh.

And Rowan felt it:

His guard shattering.

Her trust, a forge.

A bond he’d burn to keep.

He reached behind her. Fingers closed around a strand of copper wire. Scrap. Bent. Tarnished.

He laid it gently in her palm. His hand over hers.

Nothing spoken.

Just: this.

A beginning.

The loft’s quiet wrapped Elise like velvet. Brick and steel softening around her. Rowan’s silhouette stretched across the floor—long, lean, cast by the skylight’s glow.

She sat on the sofa. Sweater soft against her skin. Skirt hugging thighs still warm from the club’s echo: his command, her rise. Her fingers still buzzed from tracing his scar.

Now he watched her. Wine in hand. Green eyes steady. Piercing.

A stare that made her pulse bloom. That made her want.

“You’ve shared,” she said. Voice low. A wisp. She set the glass down. The clink, a fragile dare.

“I should too.”

Shame surged. Her mother’s hiss: disgraceful. But Rowan didn’t move. His stillness held her. His cedar scent curled around her like permission.

He leaned in. Elbow on the sofa’s arm. Shirt brushing her sweater. A graze that made her clit throb. Her nipples tightened beneath wool.

He nodded: go on.