Chapter 8 Mystery Wife
KIER
What the hell was she doing?
I froze in the doorway, watching the girl crouched on the floor like she belonged there. “What are you doing?” I asked, my tone sharper than I intended. Predictably, she flinched. She always did that—every time I moved, spoke, or even looked at her too long.
I’d carried her here myself after patching up her foot, thinking at least she’d be more comfortable in my room. That meant saying goodbye to Sofia, the brunette I was supposed to spend the day with. Great trade-off—sex for babysitting.
She sat there on the cold floor beside the bed, her wide eyes darting up at me like I might strike her.
“What are you doing on the floor? Get on the bed,” I said, pointing. She hesitated, lips trembling. I sighed. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
That did it. She scrambled up and perched stiffly at the edge of the mattress, her body wound tight like a coiled spring. I stared for a moment, then muttered, “Move away from the edge. I don’t want to scrape you off the floor later.”
She shifted barely an inch. Unbelievable.
I rubbed a hand down my face and picked up my phone. If my father wanted me married, this was his mess to explain.
> Kier: If you wanted to marry me off, couldn’t you find someone who doesn’t need instructions to breathe?
He read the message instantly. Figures.
> Father: Treat her well. That girl’s been through things you can’t imagine.
I clenched my jaw. “Fantastic,” I muttered under my breath. Just because he was miserable didn’t mean he had to drag me into his personal redemption project.
> Kier: This doesn’t feel like a wife. It feels like I’ve been handed a child to babysit.
His reply came slower this time.
> Father: Marriage is about care. Learn it. You can’t run a company if you can’t manage your home.
I wanted to throw the phone. Instead, I set it down on the nightstand and started undressing. Her back went rigid the second my shirt hit the hamper.
I paused at my briefs, then shrugged. Why bother pretending? She’d see me sooner or later. Her lashes fluttered shut as soon as I stripped them off. I almost laughed. My body wasn’t something to fear—it was something people begged for. Usually.
But the thought of touching her made something twist inside me. She looked too young, too fragile, like one wrong move would shatter her.
I turned away and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door harder than necessary. The water hissed to life, scalding against my skin. My hand found my length automatically, mind conjuring Sofia’s curves, her moans, her lips—
But then, Genesis appeared.
Her wide green eyes.
The scars tracing her back.
The quiet tremble in her breath when I touched her.
The tension in my body broke. My eyes snapped open, water pounding against my face. My arousal was gone, snuffed out like a flame in the rain.
“What the hell,” I muttered, disgusted—with myself, with her, with everything.
\---
The next morning, she was quiet. I watched her fumble with the hem of her oversized shirt, my crocs swallowing her tiny feet as she tried not to trip.
“Get in the car,” I said, opening the passenger door. She hesitated, glancing up at me like I was offering her a trap. I tilted my sunglasses down just enough for our eyes to meet. “I said, get in.”
She obeyed immediately, tugging the shirt lower over her knees. I circled around, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.
Silence filled the car, heavy and awkward. My fingers drummed the steering wheel. I shouldn’t care about her silence, but something about it crawled under my skin.
Last night flashed in my mind—the way she’d twisted in her sleep, mouth open but no sound escaping, eyes squeezed shut in panic.
It hadn’t been a scream. It had been something worse.
I glanced sideways. She stared out the window, clutching her hands together like she was bracing for something invisible.
And for reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself wanting to know what haunted her.