Chapter 21: The House That Knew Her Name
A full day had passed since the night of Kian's eighteenth birthday. One long, aching day.
The grand halls of the Fenix estate had never felt so hollow. Marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers, servants walked quietly, music floated in from somewhere distant—but to Kian, it was noise without meaning. The echo of his footsteps down those halls sounded more like chains than freedom.
He stood by the tall window in the east wing, dressed in all black—the shirt silk, the trousers sharp—but he didn't feel like a man being celebrated. The outfit, tailored to perfection, couldn't hide the faint marks on his throat and collarbone. Love bites, faded but stubborn, imprints left by her mouth, her teeth. He hadn't covered them. He didn't want to.
He could still feel her—on his skin, under it, pulsing through him like blood.
Kian had stayed the night in his family's home because it was expected. But as soon as morning came, the weight of absence became unbearable. No message. No sign. Eva hadn't contacted him once. The number he had given her remained silent. And though he hadn't asked for hers—out of respect, out of some unspoken rule—they were strangers again, in a world that wouldn't understand what they had.
He stood in the vast foyer, suitcase in hand, his jaw clenched tight.
His father's voice cut through the silence like a knife. "Going somewhere?"
Kian didn't look back. "To my house."
Victor Fenix emerged from the dining hall, his grey suit immaculate, his sharp gaze narrowing. "You've spent more time there than here since you were sixteen," he said, approaching slowly. "Now that you're an adult, maybe it's time you started acting like one. Family matters."
Kian's voice was low, unreadable. "So does silence."
Victor's brow lifted. "You always did prefer hiding. Just don't forget where you come from."
Kian turned, finally meeting his father's gaze. "I haven't forgotten. That's why I'm leaving."
Victor didn't respond. Just watched as his son walked past him, into the sunlight, into the unknown.
The drive to his private residence felt longer than usual. Or maybe it was just the weight in his chest, the quiet storm he refused to let show on his face. He kept thinking—what if she had forgotten? What if she'd already moved on? She was always in control, always composed. Maybe it hadn't meant the same to her. Maybe that night, that kiss, those breathless gasps against his neck, the way she had bit him like she wanted to mark him for life—it had been nothing more than a moment to her.
He wanted to believe otherwise.
He pulled into the narrow road leading to his private house. The place stood like a monument of glass and steel among the trees—minimalist, sharp, and silent. He stepped out of the car, fingers curled around the keys as he approached the door.
The moment he opened it, his breath caught.
She was there.
Eva.
Barefoot. Standing by the open glass wall, where sheer curtains danced with the breeze. She wore nothing but one of his black shirts, the buttons carelessly fastened. It slid off one shoulder, exposing the soft slope of her collarbone—where his mouth had worshiped her skin. Her legs were bare, long, pale, flawless. Her hair was slightly messy, cascading in soft waves around her shoulders. And her eyes… those eyes.
They looked at him like he was hers. Like he had always been.
He didn't speak. Not right away. He just stood there, frozen in the doorway, drinking her in. That sight alone could undo him.
Eva tilted her head slightly. "You look like you saw a ghost."
He stepped inside slowly, shutting the door behind him.
"I didn't think you'd come," he admitted quietly, voice rough, raw. "You never messaged. You gave me your keys, but never told me where your house is. I've been there once, but those paths… those secret turns... I couldn't find it again even if I tried."
He swallowed. "I thought maybe… maybe you forgot me."
She didn't respond. Just watched him with that unreadable expression, her lips slightly parted, like she knew every word he hadn't spoken. Her silence didn't make him feel foolish. If anything, it made him want her more.
"I'm glad I gave you my keys," he said after a moment. "I'd lose my mind if I couldn't find you again."
Still, she said nothing. She just walked toward him.
When she reached him, her hands rose and rested lightly against his chest. Her fingers grazed over the first undone button of his shirt, then another, trailing lightly over the faint love bite that peeked through. He trembled under her touch.
"I missed you," he breathed. "Even though it's been one day. It felt like years."
Eva's hand slid up to his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheek. "You talk too much," she whispered.
And then she kissed him.
The kiss was slow, dragging, almost cruel in its intimacy. It wasn't just lips meeting lips—it was possession, reconnection. Her mouth moved over his like she owned it. Like she had every right to. And she did.
Kian's hands slid around her waist, then lower, pressing her closer. He could feel the heat of her bare skin beneath the thin shirt, the curve of her hips, the softness of her body against the hardness of his. She gasped against his mouth when he deepened the kiss, but she didn't give control. No—she took it.
Her hand slid into his hair, tugging slightly as she angled his head. Her teeth grazed his lower lip. Then her tongue, soft and hot, traced it. She bit down—not hard, but enough to make him moan into her mouth.
His breath stuttered.
She pushed him backward until the backs of his legs hit the kitchen island. He sat down against the edge, and she stepped between his knees, still towering over him in dominance, even though he was taller.
She leaned in, lips brushing over the marks she'd left last time—his throat, his collar, his shoulder. She bit again, leaving another one. Then kissed it like an apology.
Kian's hands gripped her thighs, his fingers trembling slightly. Her leg slid up, wrapping around his side, pulling herself flush against him. He was so close to losing control, to begging for more. But he wouldn't. Not yet.
"I'm yours," he said hoarsely, forehead pressed to hers. "You know that, right?"
Eva didn't answer. She didn't have to.
Her lips pressed to the corner of his mouth—once, softly. Then again, on his neck. She kissed down the line of his jaw. His hands moved up her back, fingertips trailing over the edge of the shirt that belonged to him but looked so much better on her.
Their bodies tangled, heated, but the line between them—that line—remained uncrossed.
She paused first. Always her.
And he followed, drawing back, breathing hard, jaw tight with restraint. Their foreheads rested together, lips swollen, skin flushed, and hearts pounding in rhythm.
She reached toward the drawer and pulled out the small silver key he had given her. Holding it between her fingers, she turned it slowly.
"This house," he said, voice quiet, rough, "it only feels real when you're in it."
Eva looked at him, eyes unreadable. But she smiled.
Sharp. Soft. Hers.
And then she kissed him again. No words this time.
The world outside vanished.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And for now—this moment—they belonged only to each other.