Chapter 3 LINES DRAWN TOO CLOSE

I get lost on purpose.

After breakfast, after the rules and the warnings and the way Damon’s voice followed me up the stairs, I needed space. Not outside feels watched but inside this massive, unfamiliar house. I wander hallways that curve when I expect them to end, rooms that serve no obvious purpose except to exist beautifully.

The house is too perfect.

Everything has its place. Everything is chosen. The furniture looks expensive but untouched, like it’s waiting for permission to be used. It feels less like a home and more like a held breath.

I pass a sitting room with white sofas no one sits on. A glass hallway overlooking the garden. A closed door that hums faintly, probably security. The farther I go, the quieter it gets, until my footsteps feel intrusive.

Eventually, I found a study.

It’s darker than the rest of the house, lined with shelves that climb the walls, filled with books that look read, not decorative. Leather chairs. A large desk positioned like it owns the room. The scent here is different paper, wood, something faintly metallic.

This room feels lived in.

I hesitate, then step inside.

The door is already open, so I tell myself that counts as permission.

I sit on the edge of one of the chairs and pull my sketchbook from my bag. My hands feel restless, nerves buzzing under my skin, and drawing has always been the fastest way to quiet them. I don’t think so. I just let my pencil move.

Lines first. Shape. Shadow.

I’m halfway through when I realize who it is.

His posture comes naturally to my hand now. The straight spine. The stillness that looks like control instead of tension. I frown, erase, redraw.

This is stupid.

I shouldn’t

“Interesting.”

The word lands behind me like a hand on my shoulder.

I gasp and twist around so fast the sketchbook almost falls from my lap.

Damon stands in the doorway.

I didn’t hear him come in. That realization sends a chill down my spine.

“I…” I snap the book shut. “I didn’t know anyone used this room.”

“I do.”

Of course he does.

He doesn’t move closer. Not yet. He just watches me, gaze flicking to the sketchbook like he already knows what’s inside.

“You’re trespassing,” he says mildly.

“I was exploring.”

“This isn’t a gallery.”

I stand, suddenly aware of how close the air feels. “Then maybe lock the door.”

His eyes sharpen. “I don’t lock doors inside my own house.”

I should apologize. I know that. Instead, I say, “Do you announce yourself when you walk into rooms?”

Something unreadable crosses his face. “Usually, people hear me.”

I don’t like the implication there.

I clutch the sketchbook to my chest. “I’ll go.”

“Wait.”

The word stops me instantly. I hate that it does.

He steps forward now, just one step, but the room feels smaller for it. “What were you drawing?”

“Nothing.”

“Seraphina.”

The way he says my name feels deliberate again. Like he’s testing how it sounds in his mouth.

“It’s private,” I say.

He studies me for a moment, then gestures with his chin. “Show me.”

“No.”

A pause. Then, softer, “I wasn’t asking.”

Heat rushes to my face. “You don’t get to demand things from me.”

“You’re in my study.”

“I’m holding my sketchbook.”

We stare at each other, tension stretching thin and tight. Finally, before I can overthink it, I flip the book open and hold it up.

His eyes drop to the page.

I watch his face change as he recognizes himself. The jaw. The eyes. The angle of the shoulders. It’s not perfect, but it’s close enough to be unmistakable.

Silence.

I want to disappear.

“You drew me,” he says.

“I draw people when I’m nervous.”

“And you’re nervous around me.”

That wasn’t meant to be a statement.

I close the book again, mortified. “This was a mistake.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “It was.”

I brace for anger. Accusation. Something sharp.

Instead, he steps closer.

Too close.

“Do you often draw men you barely know?” he asks.

“I know you,” I snapped. “You made sure of that.”

His gaze flicks to my face, then back to the sketchbook. “That’s not what I meant.”

My heart beats too loud. “Then what did you mean?”

“That you shouldn’t be doing this.”

His voice is calm, but his body betrays him. He’s close enough now that I can see the faint crease between his brows, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. I can smell him clean, subtle, dangerous.

“Doing what?” I ask.

“Crossing lines.”

I laugh softly, breath shaky. “You’re standing in my space while telling me about boundaries.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes.

“I’m aware.”

“Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches out and gently takes the sketchbook from my hands. The touch is brief. Controlled. It still sends a jolt straight through me.

He flips through a few pages. Not just that one. Others. People. Places. Emotions sketched in lines.

“You’re talented,” he says.

“That doesn’t make this okay.”

“No,” he agrees. “It makes it complicated.”

I swallow. “Then give it back.”

He does. Immediately. Like he doesn’t trust himself to hold it longer.

“This can’t happen again,” he says.

My brow furrows. “I didn’t know drawing was illegal.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” I say honestly. “Your rules change depending on how close I am to you.”

That makes him still.

“I need you to understand something,” he says, voice low. “Distance exists for a reason.”

“Then take a step back.”

For a long moment, I think he won’t.

Then he does.

The air rushes in between us, and I hadn’t realized how tight my chest was until it loosened.

“There,” he says. “Better.”

I nod, even though it doesn’t feel better at all.

I move past him toward the door, my shoulder brushing his arm despite the space he’s created. The contact is accidental.

It still feels like a choice.

As I reach the doorway, I stop.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I say quietly, not turning around.

“I know,” he replies.

That answer hits harder than any warning.

I leave the study with my heart racing, my sketchbook pressed tight against my ribs, one terrifying truth settling deep inside me as the door closes behind me.

I’m not afraid of Damon Blackwood.

And that scares me more than anything else in this house.