Page 116 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
Just for a split second, when I pushed open that bathroom door, I figured it was the light playing tricks, or some string in my brain snapped too tight, or these past few days of no sleep piled on top of that name spinning in my head too damn long, messing with my senses.
Then she turned, and we crashed into each other, her scent hitting me full force.
Vanilla.
Not a hallucination.
Her soaked shirt lay tossed by the sink. She had on just a white towel, water droplets clinging to her collarbone. She stood in my arms, head tilted up, those green eyes wide in that moment, filled with shock, some raw panic she couldn't hide fast enough. But her body didn't pull back. She just collided into me, no space between us.
Olivia.
Five years.
Her hair hung longer than five years ago, spilling over her shoulders, ends a bit messy, probably from dealing with her clothesearlier. Her cheekbones curved softer now, but that shadow lingered under them, the kind from too many sleepless nights. Lips parted slightly, breath coming quick—maybe from the scare, or something else.
She looked even more beautiful than five years ago. Time etched marks on her, the kind that grabbed your gaze and wouldn't let go.
Fuck.
Something thudded dull in my chest.
Then anger swallowed it.
"Let me go!"
I stepped back half a pace, letting her slip out of my hold, but I didn't move aside. I blocked her in the bathroom, counter behind her, walls on both sides, no way around me.
"You're in my house."
Not a question.
She looked up at me, that initial panic lingering in her eyes for no more than three seconds. Then something shifted in her gaze, like a door slamming shut, locking stuff away, leaving something I didn't recognize on the outside—
Cold. Sharp.
"Yeah," she said, voice steady, "if I'd known it was your place, I wouldn't have come."
I stared at her.
She wasn't like this five years ago. Back then, she'd glance away under my stare, inch back half a step when I got close, hold onto some fragile dignity in arguments with a tone I knew she was forcing.
The woman in front of me showed no sign of backing down.
She stood there, towel draped over her arm, skin damp, trapped between the counter and walls, watching me with this goddamn uncomfortable calm, like I was just one more hassle in her day, and she'd seen worse.
"Five years," I stepped forward, bracing my hand on the counter behind her, shrinking the space, "you vanish for five years, then show up in my house, in front of my daughter—you think I'll buy this as a coincidence?"
"You don't have to," she flinched for a beat but lifted her eyes to mine quick, "but it's the truth."
Truth.
The word scraped past my ear, and I heard myself snort coldly. Five years ago, she did the same—vanished without a word, clean gone, not even a spare glance for me. Now here she stood, tossing out "it's the truth" like it meant nothing.
"What's the truth?" I pressed forward another step, no room for her to retreat, her lower back hitting the sink's edge, my shadow swallowing her whole. "Truth is you took the money and ran. Truth is five years of zero contact. Truth is you're back now, standing in my house, dressed—"
My gaze dropped an inch. White towel, wet, clinging to her skin, faint outlines underneath. Collarbone, shoulders, that curve from neck to shoulder, sharper than five years ago, every bone countable.
I yanked my eyes back to hers.
