Accidentally Yours

Lola 9:02AM

Lola Marlowe woke up in stages.

First came the headache—deep, throbbing, like her skull had been stuffed with bass drops and bubblegum cement.

Second, the subtle comfort of familiarity: her lavender sheets, the vine-wrapped bookshelves, fairy lights flickering against walls lined with plants, sketch pads, and mugs in various states of abandonment. Her room. Her sanctuary. She was home.

Okay. Not in jail. Not dead. Good start.

Then came the regret.

This is what I get for letting that dumbass Josh nuke my life. Manipulative, cheating tool bag—took my trust, my friends, and left me with Gino of all people convincing me Burning Man was a good idea.

Spoiler: it wasn’t.

After Josh, she’d nuked her entire social life. Friend groups split, sides were chosen, and Lola picked solitude. She didn’t trust anyone anymore—not really.

Except Gino didn’t count. Gino was a regular at her shop—loud, weird, never shut up while getting tattooed—but harmless. When he’d invited her out last-minute, she’d reluctantly said yes. Not because she trusted him, but because he was a pain in the ass who seemed like he might be a good time.

I’m going to kill Gino. As soon as I’m resurrected, because I’m 90% sure I’m dying right now. Ugh, what even happened yesterday?

She groaned, rolling onto her side.

Something felt… off.

Her bare thighs hit cool sheets. Her ass was out. Her hoodie was oversized and unfamiliar. She sat up with a jolt.

“…What the hell happened to my clothes?”

Her voice came out hoarse, heart thudded.

Neon rave wings? Gone.

Fishnets? Missing in action.

Top? Replaced by a baggy hoodie that definingly wasn’t hers but smelled amazing.

Did I… hook up with the most boring person at Burning Man? This has got to be the plainest khaki hoodie you could buy.

A low groan rumbled at the foot of her bed.

She stilled.

Turned.

And screamed.

There was a man.

A whole-ass man.

Tied to her bed—shirtless, tan, sculpted, and glaring at her like she’d personally killed his bloodline.

He was huge. All muscle and menace, with a jaw that looked carved out of vengeance and cheekbones sharp enough to stab someone.His long body sprawled awkwardly across the too-small mattress, clearly too big for her bed, especially curled the way he was. The lavender silk rope wrapped around his thick wrists and ankles pulled taut where it connected to the bedposts.

Lola did what any rational person would do:

She grabbed the nearest object—a lava lamp—and launched it at his head.

The man shifted just enough to avoid it, lamp exploding against the wall behind him, spraying glittering goo and rainbow stars into the void.

He didn’t flinch.

She screamed involuntarily and then, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY APARTMENT?! WHY ARE YOU TIED TO MY BED?!”

His voice was deep. Calm. Dangerous.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Her heart pounded.

“Did I—did I invite you here? Are you, like, one of those hotel actors? Is this some weird immersive experience?! Are you trying to rob me because there’s nothing here to steal.”

“You tied me to the bed.”

She blinked. Looked at the rope. Then back at him.

Okay. Yes. Technically… yes it looks like I did that, definitely my handy work.

“You could’ve tied yourself up!” she snapped. “People are into weird shit these days!”

His jaw flexed. “Does that sound like something I would do?”

“I don’t know! You’re terrifying! And your abs have abs! This could be a trap! Maybe you’re reverse-kidnapping me and trying to sue me for false imprisonment!”

He blinked once. Slowly. Like a man choosing peace before war. “Untie me.”

“I don’t even remember last night!” she shouted. “This is what I get for getting caught up in the moment and didn’t question what was in that damn drink! This is why! This is EXACTLY why—”

“Lola.”

She froze.

He said it so calmly. So sure.

She spun, pointing at him like he’d summoned Satan. “HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?!”

His gaze slid toward her dresser. “You won that,” he said coolly, nodding at the engraved glass plaque beside a sketchbook. “‘Lola Marlowe—Best Black & White Ink Design, West Coast Tattoo Expo.’”

She stared at it. Then at him.

“…Right,” she muttered. “Cool. This is fine. Everything’s fine, you’re not freaking out,” she said while smoothing the hoodie out just to have something to do with her hands. 

He dragged his eyes over her again—slowly. Not hungry. Not curious. Calculating.

She grabbed a pillow off the bed and held it in front of her like a weapon.

He said nothing.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she barked. “I’m not a psycho! I don’t usually tie up strangers. I’m usually the one getting tied up, not the other way around!”

He arched an eyebrow. “Noted.”

“I’m going to go shower and try to figure out what the actual fuck is happening.”

“I’ll be here,” he said dryly, pulling on the silk restraints.

“Don’t go anywhere!” she shouted, then winced. “Okay that was dumb—just… stay.”

She turned and fled to the bathroom like the apartment was on fire.

Enzo 

The water started. Enzo Marchesi exhaled slowly.

He was curled awkwardly across a too-small mattress in a stranger’s bedroom—legs bent, shoulders tight, wrists bound to the bed post, ankles stretched toward the other post like a silk-wrapped goddamn pig roast.

The scent of citrus, honeysuckle and brown sugar hung in the air like an intoxicating Old Fashion.

This is what I get for letting Gino talk me into things, something ridiculous happens every time. I should fucking know better. Why on Earth did I think that it was a good idea at the time. Rule number one: Never listen to Gino. 

He hadn’t wanted to go to Burning Man. Hadn’t planned to leave Vegas, but the weight of command had been heavier lately. 

Seven years of power. 

Seven years of blood, bullets, and bloodlines. 

Seven years of responsibility for men who didn’t smile and enemies who didn’t blink.

He just wanted one night.

One breath of something stupid.

Instead, he got glitter liquor bombed, no memories, and a woman with fire in her hair, a lava lamp in her hand and wearing his hoodie.

Lola.

Who had no idea who he was. 

And somehow all the power.

This doesn’t seem work related. She’s freaking out too much to be an assassin and it would be strange to play dumb when she already has me tied up.

She re-entered the room in a rush, hoodie half-zipped, boots only halfway on.

“Oh my God,” she blurted. “You’re still here?”

She’s got to be joking.

Enzo blinked. “You’re surprised?”

She groaned and scrambled for something on the desk. “I was hoping I hallucinated this entire thing.”

“Unfortunately not.”

So accidental kidnapping? Why doesn’t she just let me go?

Then she stopped cold. Her eyes went wide.

“Shit. Shitshitshit—I have a client. I was supposed to open fifteen minutes ago. I’m gonna lose money—”

“You’re leaving me here?” he asked, the sheer absurdity of it cutting through his calm.

Surely not, right? Especially if this isn’t intentional.

“Well I very well can’t take you with me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it, to confused to process fast enough.

She yanked on one boot, grabbed her keys, then hesitated. Looked back. Moved fast.

She walked over, lifted a pillow off the floor, and gently slid it under his head.

“There,” she muttered. “So, your neck doesn’t snap while I’m gone.”

He stared at her.

“I’ll be back,” she added, flustered. “I just… need time.”

And then she was gone. The front door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the silent, glitter-strewn apartment.

And tied to a bed.

The second the lock turned, Enzo shifted his weight, muscles coiling. He tested the bonds at his wrists, pulling against the silk with deliberate, increasing pressure. The ropes didn't give an inch. Instead, they seemed to tighten, holding fast with a professional, unyielding grip. A low grunt of frustration escaped him. He was six-foot-four, over two hundred pounds of solid muscle, trained to escape worse than this—yet he was thoroughly, impeccably restrained.

How the hell did that small woman tie these intricate knots?