Chapter 1

　　Layla's POV.

　　The front door slammed behind me with a finality that made my stomach drop.

　　I was barely inside the house when I felt it, that heavy, watchful presence that had always made me feel both safe and trapped at the same time. Marcus was already standing in the wide entryway, arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark eyes locked on me like I was a problem that needed solving.

　　"Layla." His voice was low, calm, and far too controlled. "You're late."

　　I dropped my duffel bag at my feet, the thud echoing through the too-quiet house. Six months, that was how long my Mom was going to be gone, chasing some big promotion in Singapore while I was stuck here, finishing my sophomore year from home because the dorms had "maintenance issues." Translation: my Mom had decided I wasn't responsible enough to live on campus unsupervised.

　　And now I was facing the one man who had always enforced the rules like they were gospel.

　　Marcus looked exactly the same as the last time I'd seen him — tall, broad-shouldered, early forties but built like someone who still lifted heavy every morning. His dark hair was cut short, jaw sharp, and those steel-gray eyes didn't miss a damn thing. He was wearing a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms corded with muscle. The sight of him made something low in my belly tighten, the same unwelcome flutter I'd been ignoring since I was seventeen.

　　"I missed my connecting flight," I said, trying for casual as I pushed my long auburn hair behind one ear. "It's not a big deal."

　　Marcus didn't move. "Your mother's plane left three hours ago. She called me twice from the airport, worried sick because you weren't answering your phone."

　　She called?

　　I pulled my phone from my back pocket to find it dead. Oh no.

　　I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance even as my pulse kicked up. "I'm twenty years old, Marcus. I don't need a babysitter just because Mom's gone."

　　Something shifted in his expression, a tightening around his mouth, a darkening in his eyes that made the air feel thicker.

　　He took one slow step forward, then another, until he was close enough that I could smell the faint scent of his aftershave mixed with something warmer, more masculine.

　　"While you live under this roof," he said quietly, voice dropping into that dangerously calm register I remembered from my teenage years, "you will follow my rules. No exceptions. No attitude. And no disappearing for hours without letting me know where you are."

　　My mouth went dry. I hated how my body reacted to that tone, part fear, part something far more shameful. Heat crawled up my neck.

　　"I'm not a child anymore," I shot back, but my voice came out softer than I intended.

　　Marcus's gaze flicked down to my short denim skirt, the cropped tank top that showed a strip of smooth stomach, then back up to my face. "You're acting like one. Coming home at midnight smelling like cheap beer and cigarette smoke on your first night back. That stops tonight."

　　My cheeks burned. I hadn't even been that drunk, just a quick goodbye drink with friends from high school before we all scattered again for the semester. But of course he could smell it on me.

　　Marcus stepped even closer, towering over me. "New rules, Layla. Curfew is eleven on weeknights, midnight on weekends, and that's only if I know exactly where you are and who you're with. Phone stays on and answered. No boys in this house when I'm not home. Chores every morning before classes. And if you break any of them…" He let the sentence hang, his eyes boring into mine.

　　My heart hammered against my ribs. "What? You'll ground me? Take away my car keys?"

　　A slow, humorless smile curved his lips. "I'll do whatever it takes to remind you who's in charge here. Your mother left me in full control while she's gone. Don't test me, little girl."

　　The words "little girl" sent an unwelcome spark straight between my legs. I pressed my thighs together instinctively, hating myself for the reaction. This is Marcus, my stepfather. The man who had married my Mom when I was fourteen and spent the next six years being the strict, distant authority figure who never let me get away with anything. I'm supposed to resent him. Not feel my nipples tighten under my thin bra at the way he was looking at me right now.

　　"Fine," I muttered, bending to grab my bag so I wouldn't have to keep meeting those intense eyes. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

　　I tried to brush past him toward the stairs but Marcus's hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around my upper arm, not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to stop me cold. The heat of his palm burning through my skin. "Not so fast."

　　I froze, my breath catching. His grip was warm, strong, and far too intimate for a simple correction. I looked up at him, suddenly aware of how close we were, close enough to see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell with controlled breaths.

　　"You reek of alcohol," he said, voice lower now, almost rough. "Go upstairs, shower, and come back down. We're going to have a proper discussion about respect and consequences before you disappear into your room."

　　My stomach flipped. "Marcus—"

　　"It's Sir when you're being corrected," he cut in, the words landing like a whip. "And you're already pushing it."

　　My mind raced. Part of me wanted to yank my arm free and tell him to fuck off, but another, darker part wondered what exactly "consequences" would look like now that my Mom wasn't here to soften his edges.

　　I swallowed hard, my pulse thundering in my ears. "Yes… Sir," I whispered, the word tasting strange and dangerously thrilling on my tongue.

　　Marcus released my arm slowly, his fingers trailing just a fraction longer than necessary. His eyes darkened further as he watched my reaction. "Good girl," he murmured.