The engine roared to life, and my stomach did that weird flip again.
Why does every little thing he does make my heart try to escape my chest?
"Seatbelt on?" he asked, voice casual but with that infuriating glint in his eyes.
"Yeah…" I mumbled, my voice higher than I intended.
He glanced at me, one eyebrow cocked, and a slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.
"Good. You're trembling."
What? I'm not trembling! I clenched my hands in my lap. Okay, maybe a little. Shut up, brain.
"You're… nervous," he added, leaning just slightly toward me.
His proximity made my senses go haywire. I could smell him—subtle cologne, maybe… maybe something more. My chest tightened. My palms were sweating.
"I'm… not," I said quickly, eyes fixed on the window. Totally not staring at his jawline. Definitely not noticing how his smile looked dangerous and… sexy all at once.
What? Sexy? Am I going nuts?
This is the man I fear the most right now. And I find him sexy?
I must be single way too long.
He laughed softly, low and amused. "Relax, Olivia. You don't have to fight it. It's just me."
Just him. My brain repeated the words like a mantra, trying to convince myself that the butterflies were normal, harmless… not the wild, chaotic things they were.
"So… you don't bite?" I asked, trying to sound casual, but my voice betrayed me.
He smirked. "Depends on the company."
Oh God, stop that smirk.
Makes me wanna punch him so bad!
He shifted in his seat, and suddenly our arms brushed. My chest skipped a beat. My stomach did another somersault. And, somehow, I felt him notice. He didn't pull away. Didn't even glance, embarrassed—just that devilish grin.
I forced myself to look out the window. Trees blurred past. Streetlights flickered. I tried to tell myself it was nothing.
Just a ride.
A drive TO HIS HOUSE.
Nothing else.
But every inch of me knew otherwise.
"Relax, Oli," he murmured again, almost too close to hear clearly. My breath hitched.
"We'll get there soon."
"Yeah," I whispered back, but my voice barely carried conviction.
Inside, a battle raged: Don't let him see you like this… Don't let him know… But why does it feel so… good?
Can I trust him?
Maybe?
And he just smirked, like he could read every thought, every flutter of my heart. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Oh God. This is going to be a long ride.
…
We arrived at his place, but instead of taking us through the front door, he gestured for us to follow him around the side.
The evening air was cool, brushing against my skin as we walked past the tall hedges and into the backyard. There, hidden behind a curtain of ivy and dim fairy lights, stood a smaller house — almost like a secret annex — with ancient white wooden doors.
They were carved with intricate floral patterns, vines curling around faint angelic faces, their features worn away by time. The paint was chipped but somehow perfect in its imperfection, like something plucked straight out of a forgotten century.
"Wow…" I murmured, my fingers brushing against the wood.
"These are beautiful. Where did you even find doors like this?"
He smiled, just barely. "They've always been here. Maybe the previous owner was… eccentric."
Eccentric. Right. That's one way to describe whoever lived here before.
"I just improvised it a little with the things here and there."
The door creaked as he pushed it open, and my breath caught in my throat.
The room inside looked like it had been inspired by every gothic novel ever written. The dim amber light from the chandeliers bathed the space in an old, honeyed glow. The walls were covered with rich burgundy wallpaper adorned with black damask patterns. Heavy velvet curtains framed tall, arched windows that looked like they probably hadn't been opened in years.
And there it was — the centerpiece — a grand red velvet sofa set that looked like it belonged in an 1800s aristocrat's drawing room. Its legs were claw-footed, and above it hung a massive painting of a woman in a black lace gown, her expression hauntingly serene.
A library stood across the room. Yes, a library— floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves lined with all the gothic books you could think of. I could smell the faint musk of old paper mixed with sandalwood and something faintly metallic. Candles flickered on every table, their wax dripping down antique candelabras.
This place screamed — RICH!
"Okay…" I whispered, slowly turning in awe.
"This is… insane. It's like stepping into a story."
He laughed softly, his voice echoing just slightly in the stillness. "A tragic one, maybe," he teased, walking over to the shelves.
"Most of these are gothic classics — Brontë, Shelley, Radcliffe. My mother used to read them to me when I was a kid."
There was something tender in the way he said it — boyish almost. It softened him.
"I can't believe you never told anyone about this place," I said, tracing the spine of an old book.
"I haven't told anyone," he replied, glancing at me. "Except for my mother. And now you."
I froze. That should've sounded suspicious — it did sound suspicious — but the way he said it was almost… intimate. Like a secret meant only for me.
I forced a laugh. "You sure you're not planning to lock me in here forever?"
How could I even make a joke like that?
He grinned, a little too knowingly. "Would it be so bad? I mean, you'd have all the books you could ever want."
I mean, it would be a dream come true.
No, no, what am I even thinking!
"Hmm, tempting," I said, smirking despite the goosebumps on my arms. "But I think I'd miss daylight."
He chuckled and leaned against the sofa, his eyes glinting under the dim chandelier.
"You might change your mind once I show you the rest."
There it was again — that flutter in my chest I couldn't explain. This man, with his strange secrets and gothic obsessions, was either dangerously charming or just plain dangerous.
Or both.
And honestly, I wasn't sure which one thrilled me more.