Craved By My Fiance's Brother

MEEKA'S POV::

"Jesus," I whisper, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat and starting the car. "Please don't let it be serious."

I speed through the streets, nerves unraveling with every red light.

By the time I pull up to the DeWitt mansion, my chest feels tight. The huge black gates swing open like a mouth ready to swallow me whole.

The moment I step out of the car, Vanessa is already waiting on the porch, her hands wringing together.

"Vanessa," I start, breathless. "What happened? Where's Nathaniel?"

She exhales deeply, pressing a hand on her chest. "Oh, Meeka. Thank heavens you're here."

I grab my bag tighter. "What's going on? Is he-"

"He's not feeling well," she cuts in solemnly.

My heart plummets. "Not feeling well? How bad is it? Did he faint? Should we call a doctor -"

"He's in bed," she says dramatically, lowering her voice like she's delivering tragic news. "And he's refusing to eat."

I blink. "What?"

"He says he won't eat unless it's your chicken soup," she says with motherly conviction, as if that explains everything.

I just.... stare, trying to understand something.

"Chicken soup?" I repeat, making sure I heard that right.

She nods gravely, completely serious. "Yes, dear. He says only yours makes him feel better. I tried to have the chef prepare it, but he refused to even touch it.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out for a full five seconds.

That's it? Like, that's the emergency?

I left work.... the one I'm already late for, almost got a speeding ticket.... all for a soup? A fucking chicken soup?

I press my fingers or my forehead, shaking my head in frustration.

"Mrs. DeWitt, could he just manage the soup from the chefs? I'll make another one when I return. I'm already late for work-"

"Oh, darling, this isn't about work," she cuts in quickly, with that motherly tone that sounds sweet but isn't really a request. "He hasn't eaten a thing since last night. You know how stubborn he gets. My poor boy is suffering. Please, go make it for him. Just be fast and finish up so you can go."

I just stand there, speechless. I don't know if I should laugh or cry. But one thing I'm very sure of, is that I might murder someone right now.

~~

Thankfully, in just a few minutes, I'm done with the soup.

However, I'm not happy. But still, I can't help the tiny tug of guilt that follows. Nathaniel is sick, and I'm his fiancée.

This is my duty, right?

Right.

I try to swallow the frustration building in my chest as I carry the tray upstairs, balancing it carefully so it doesn't spill. My heart beats a little faster as I push his door, his scent welcoming me first.

He's sitting up in bed, scrolling lazily on his phone. He looks fine, perfectly so. Except for the faint furrow between his brows that disappears the second he sees me.

"Here she comes," he says, his lips curling into that slow smile I know too well. "You actually came."

"Of course I did." I manage a small smile, setting the tray on his bedside table. "Your Mom said you weren't feeling well."

He shrugs lightly, leaning back against the headboard. "Just a little fever. Nothing serious."

I sit at the edge of the bed, instinctively reaching out to touch his forehead. His skin feels warm, not dangerously so, but enough to make me frown.

"You should've called the doctor." I say with concern.

He catches my wrist before I can pull away. "I don't need a doctor, Meeka. I just needed you."

My breath hitches a little, his words hitting that soft spot inside me... the part that still wants to believe he means them.

But something in his tone feels off, like he knows exactly what he's doing.

"You should eat," I say quietly, trying to keep my voice steady as I reach for the soup bowl. "It's still warm.

He obeys, taking the spoon from my hand and tasting it. Then he smiles faintly, almost boyish for once.

"It's nice as always. You should go now, I'm sure you're late for work already."

Holy crap! Did he just say that? Of course I'm late. Like, a full hour late already.

But I smile and sit beside him again. "Don't worry. I already called to let them know I'd be late."

He smiles back and nods, that same smooth charm returning.

When he's done, I help clear the tray, trying to ignore the strange weight in my chest. His eyes follow me as I move, the way they always do possessively, like I belong to him.

"Thank you," he says softly when I reach the door. "You make everything better."

I pause for a second, forcing a small smile. "Just rest, okay? I'll check on you later."

He nods, eyes half-lidded. "See you later, Meeka."

I nod too and slip out of the room.

~~**

I return home in the evening, completely exhausted, my feet aching and my thoughts scattered. The day has been long, and I'm still irritated about how it started, though I try not to dwell on it.

I drop my bag on the couch, sigh and head to the kitchen for water.

Just as I grab a bottle from the fridge, the doorbell rings.

At first, I ignore it. Maybe it's the neighbors door. Definitely not mine.

But it rings again. One long, deliberate chime that makes me frown.

I walk to the door, open it slowly.... and stop, my frown deepening.

There's a small, elegant black box sitting on my welcome mat, but no one's in sight.

My name glitters on top in silver handwriting, which makes my stomach twist as I already know this isn't from Nathaniel. But who?

I pick it up, heart hammering as I proceed to open it. Inside the box is a single piece of red lacey.... pantie.

"What the hell?" my eyes pop out with a confused frown.

And beneath it is a single note that reads....

* You forgot this the other night, Little Rebel. I thought you might want it back.

P.S. Meet me at The Ivy tonight. 9PM. Don't keep me waiting. *

My entire body goes still, realization hitting my brain.

It's Slade.

Jesus! And that's my pantie!

I press my hand to my mouth, my breath stuttering. I can't believe I forgot them that night, and I'm just realizing it now.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I stare at the box again, then around the stairs, before quickly dashing inside.

How the hell does he know my home?

"Meet him at The Ivy at nine? Pfft!" I scoff, rolling my eyes. "Who does he think he is to give me orders?"

He's obviously crazy.

But apparently, I'm the crazier one.

Because tell me why the time is 8:45p.m, and I'm all dressed up already, ready to go meet him at The Ivy?

"This is insane," I mutter under my breath, checking myself in the mirror for what has to be the tenth time.

My reflection glares back at me like she doesn't even recognize herself anymore. My hair's down, lips glossed, and my heart doing this ridiculous stutter thing that refuses to calm.

Wait. Why am I prepping myself like I'm going to a beauty pageant?

Well, at least I'm not going for him.

I'm going to him to stop. To end whatever twisted game he's playing.

That's all.

But my hands are shaking as I grab my purse. My pulse doesn't lie.

I lock the door behind me and step into the cool night air. It bites against my skin, grounding me.

* You forgot this the other night, Little Rebel. *

God, even the way he writes makes me want to scream.

Not in the way you think though. No. It's in that naughty, completely inappropriate kind of way I'm talking about.

Crap!

I didn't say that. That was my crazy mind talking.

By the time I reach The Ivy, my stomach is a knot. The place looks exactly like the kind of trouble he'd belong to. Dimly lit with velvet booths, the music is soft enough to hide secrets. A place where the rich misbehave unseen.

I almost turn around.

I said 'almost.‹ because obviously my brain is now acting without my permission.

My breath shakes a little when I see him.

He's sitting in a corner booth like he owns the night, wearing a black shirt, the sleeves rolled up, one hand lazily holding a glass of whiskey.

His head tilts slightly when he spots me, that knowing smirk spreading across his lips.

My heart drops straight to my stomach.

"I knew you'd come," he murmurs when I reach the table, his voice low, smooth and utterly dangerous.

"I came to tell you this has to stop," I say, pointblank, trying to sound firm even though my pulse betray me."

He chuckles under his breath, the sound dark enough to curl through me.

"You came because you missed me.

"No, I didn't." The lie tastes bitter. "Whatever this is, it ends now."

He leans in, placing his elbows on the table as his eyes lock on mine. Dark colliding with blue-green, definitely a catastrophic combo.

"You sure about that, Rebel?"

The way he says that Rebel makes my skin tingle, and I hate it. The air between us is heavy, charged. I hate that my body remembers him more clearly than my mind wants to.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls something from his pocket and sets it on the table.

It's a keyboard.

"Suite 1107," he says, sliding it toward me slowly. "You have ten seconds to walk away."

I stare at it, my pulse roaring in my ears. My throat's dry, and my fingers are twitching.

Slade leans back, watching me in a controlled manner that says he's completely in charge.

"Ten," he starts counting before I know it.

My heart pounds.

"Nine... eight..."

I should leave. God, I should fucking leave this place.

"Seven... six..."

My hand trembles.

"Five..."

The world feels smaller, hotter, like every breath burns.

"Four... three..."

I push back from the booth, my legs moving before my brain can catch up.

I'm walking away. Yes! I'm fucking walking away from...

Wait. Am I really? Because I don't think I'm moving.