Chapter 2
I turned back. The lights of the Feron Mansion faded into the distance. It was once the place I called home, but now it was off-limits to me.
I no longer had a home in this world.
A black Rolls-Royce glided silently through the rain and pulled up beside me.
The window rolled down, revealing Danny's face. His features were so perfect they seemed sculpted by the gods.
Rain dampened the ends of his hair, adding a darkness to his usual elegance.
He didn't bother with an umbrella. He just opened the door and stepped right into the murky puddles, his black leather shoes splashing through the dirty water.
He dropped to one knee in the mud, completely ignoring the fact that his custom suit, which was worth tens of thousands of dollars, was getting drenched in filthy water.
His hand held my muddy ankle steady, the rough calluses on his fingertips brushing against my delicate injury, making me wince from the pain.
"Does it hurt?" Danny asked.
Even with the rain pouring down, his words were crystal clear, laced with a kind of addictive magic that made it impossible to look away.
My throat was raw from crying. All I could do was shake my head, numb and automatic.
"The Feron family may have cast you aside, but I want you," Danny said.
He flashed a smile that made my skin crawl. In that moment, he was like a hunter who'd waited a lifetime, finally watching his bait fall right into the trap.
He cradled me in his arms and carried me into the car.
The click of the door locking behind me echoed in my ears like a funeral bell, heavy and final.
Danny took me to a private villa perched high along a twisting mountain road.
This wasn't the Feron Mansion. It was his private property. There wasn't even a guest room in it.
The temperature inside was steady, but the cold air from the AC chilled me to the bone through my drenched dress.
Danny acted like a tireless caretaker, pressing me gently to sit by the edge of the bathtub.
He slowly unzipped my dress, his movements so skilled and precise that it made me feel afraid.
"Danny, let me do it myself," I said.
I tried to cover myself with my trembling hands.
Danny caught my wrist in a grip that was surprisingly strong, but in the next instant, his touch softened into a gentle caress.
He grabbed a warm towel and slowly wiped the mud and tear stains from my face, his touch gentle and deliberate.
Danny said, "Sweetheart, I'm your brother. Isn't it my job to take care of you?"
He drew out the word "brother," his tone wrapped in a teasing intimacy that felt both mocking and unsettling.
The warm water streamed down as Danny held the showerhead, patiently washing the dirt from between my fingers, even scrubbing between my toes until they were spotless.
"See how dirty it is out there," Danny said.
His gaze landed on my skin, not like a brother's, but like an artist scrutinizing his secret masterpiece, with a suffocating sense of judgment that made me feel completely exposed.
"Here's the only place that's clean. You're only safe when you're with me," Danny whispered.
I stared at myself in the mirror. There was a dark bruise on my forehead, and my knees were battered and bleeding.
Those injuries came from my fall in the rain. Standing before Danny, I felt like a fragile vase that was broken and pieced back together.
Danny picked up the first aid kit and gently applied medicine to my injuries.
The moment the alcohol touched my wound, I couldn't help but cry out. Big tears dropped onto the back of his hand.
"Hang in there," Danny said softly, leaning down. His warm breath touched my skin as he gently blew over the wound.
That kind of closeness made me tense up all over.
I used to think it was just his overprotective, almost motherly side. I thought he was spoiling me.
But now, I'd lost the cover of being his sister.
The way Danny looked at me was completely different. There was a feverish intensity in his eyes, like a conqueror claiming his prize.
"Iris, don't you dare run away," Danny said.
He caught my chin, tilting my face up so I had no choice but to look at him.
"It's pouring outside. If you ever step out that door again, there's no telling what I might do to you," he warned.
I was stuck in that villa for a whole week.
Danny confiscated my phone, severing every connection I had to the outside world.
Every morning, Danny would be at my bedside before I even opened my eyes, treating me like a child. He would gently wipe my face and patiently trim my toenails with those elegant little scissors.
In the office, he was the decisive Mr. Feron, making billion-dollar decisions. But in this bedroom, he was nothing more than my exclusive caretaker.
"Your ankle's still a bit swollen," Danny said.
He held my foot steady in one hand, while the other expertly worked the pressure points around my ankle, massaging with a skill that felt almost clinical.
His hands, usually wrapped around a fountain pen, were now gently applying moisturizer to my skin. The warmth of his touch left me nowhere to hide.
After I finished washing up, Danny would pull me out from under the covers and dress me.
Even my underwear was handpicked by him. It was always lace. He'd smooth out every crease with obsessive care.
"This color looks even better on you," Danny murmured.
He stood behind me at the dressing mirror, arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his chin pressed against my shoulder, holding me close as if I might slip away.