Chapter 118 The Fortress of Four Walls
The heat of Nate’s kiss was the only thing keeping me from shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. But as the adrenaline began to dip, the reality of the freezing rain reclaimed my body with a vengeance. My teeth began to chatter and the heavy, sodden weight of my uniform was pulling the last of the warmth from my marrow.
"Inside," Nate muttered against my lips. "Mila, you’re freezing. We need to get you dry before you get sick."
He didn't lead me toward the black SUV. Instead, he kept his arm draped firmly over my shoulders, shielding me as much as possible as he guided me up the concrete steps of the dorm. The lobby was empty, the late-hour silence of the building feeling eerie compared to the chaos outside. The security guard, a man who usually barely looked up from his crossword, stared at Nate with wide, unblinking eyes. He didn't ask for a guest pass. No one asks a Salvatore for ID when he looks like he’s ready to burn the building down.
We didn't speak in the elevator. Nate stood behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders, his thumbs tracing small, comforting circles over my collarbones. I could feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the damp chill of my clothes. I felt exposed, raw, and yet strangely safe.
The door to my room clicked shut behind us, and for a moment, we just stood in the dark. The only light came from the streetlamps outside, casting long, amber shadows across the small space. It was a humble room—a twin bed, a desk piled with textbooks, and a single window—but with Nate standing in the center of it, it felt like the only sanctuary left in the world.
"The shower," Nate said, his voice low and commanding, though his eyes were soft as they searched mine. "Go. Stay in there until you can feel your toes again. I’ll be right here."
I nodded, too drained to argue, and retreated into the tiny ensuite bathroom. I stripped off the soaked polyester of my uniform, letting it fall in a heavy, pathetic heap on the floor. When the hot water hit my skin, I nearly fell over from the sheer, stinging relief of it. I leaned my forehead against the plastic wall, letting the steam fill my lungs, trying to wash away the lingering echo of my father’s voice. I scrubbed my skin until it was pink, trying to erase the feeling of being a "bribe" or a "shield" for people who didn't deserve my protection.
When I finally stepped out, wrapped in a thin towel that felt far too small for the tension in the room, the atmosphere had shifted. The small lamp on my desk was on, casting a warm, honeyed glow over the cramped space. Nate had stripped off his rain-drenched shirt and shoes; they were draped over the back of my desk chair, dripping onto the linoleum.
He was sitting on the edge of my bed, half-naked, his broad, muscular back toward me. The light highlighted the powerful lines of his shoulders and the faint scars that told stories of a life far more dangerous than his tailored suits let on. When he heard the door open, he turned, and the air in the room instantly thickened, becoming heavy and electric.
His eyes traveled over me—from my damp hair to my bare shoulders—with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.
"I found this," he said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding like velvet over gravel. He held out my favorite oversized T-shirt—the one I always wore to sleep in. It was gray, faded, and hung to my mid-thighs.
I took it from him, my fingers brushing against his warm palm. The spark was instantaneous, a jolt of lightning that traveled straight to my core. I ducked back into the bathroom for a second to pull it on, the soft cotton a welcome relief against my skin. When I walked back out, the room felt smaller, the bed more prominent.
Nate hadn't moved. He was still watching me, his golden eyes darkened with a hunger that wasn't just about the mess with my parents or the rain outside. It was about us.
"Nate," I whispered, stepping closer until my knees brushed his. "I don't want to talk about them anymore. I don't want to talk about the debts or the secrets."
He reached out, his large hands settling on my hips, pulling me into the space between his knees. The heat from his bare chest was a siren call. "Then don't," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. "For tonight, there is no Salvatore name, and there are no Stones. It’s just you and me in a room that’s too small for how much I want you."
I let my hands rest on his shoulders, feeling the dampness of his skin and the rock-hard muscle beneath. The air between us was thick with a gravity that made my head light. He didn't move to push me onto the bed; he didn't try to take more than I was offering. Instead, he just held me there, his thumb tracing the hem of my shirt where it met my thigh, sending shivers through me that had nothing to do with the cold.
"You're still shivering," he whispered, his eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation. "I can leave, Mila. I can sleep in the car if you need the space. I told you—your pace. Always."
I shook my head, my fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. "No. Don't go. Stay."
The vulnerability in his expression was almost more than I could bear. This was the man who could buy and sell the city, yet here he was, waiting for a girl in a faded T-shirt to tell him it was okay to breathe. I leaned down, pressing my lips to the hollow of his throat. I felt him shudder, his grip on my hips tightening just enough to let me know how much restraint he was using.
"Stay," I repeated against his skin.
He let out a long, ragged breath and pulled me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck. We stayed like that for a long moment, the silence of the room punctuated only by the frantic drumming of our hearts.
I ran my palms down his chest, tracing the hard planes of his abs and the ridge of a scar near his ribs. He was beautiful—terrifyingly so—and the way he looked at me made me feel like I was the only girl left in the world. He was careful, almost reverent, as he stood up and pulled back the covers of the twin bed, making room for both of us in the narrow space.
As we lay down, the bed creaking under his weight, he pulled me against him so that my back was flush against his chest. His arm draped over my waist, anchoring me.
"Sleep, Mila," he murmured into my hair, his voice a low, protective rumble. "I've got you."