I’m not a babysitter!

Liana's POV

The drawing. The desperate, foolish question scrawled beneath it. The heat rushed to my face, a wave of mortification and simmering fury. He knew. He had read my secret thoughts, held my vulnerability in his hand, and now he was flaunting it.

My mother, absorbed in a conversation with Mr. Ashford about the day’s schedule, seemed to notice nothing amiss. My step-father, Robert, a kind but somewhat detached man, was engrossed in his newspaper, the rustle of the pages the only sound other than the soft clinking of cutlery.

“Dante,” Mr. Ashford said suddenly, lowering his newspaper just enough for his kind, tired eyes to peer over the top. “Take Liana with you to school today, will you? No need for two drivers. Keep it simple.”

The words hung in the air, a command, an unexpected twist of fate that made my blood run cold. My eyes darted to Dante. He didn’t even blink. No reaction, no surprise, no hint of protest. His hand reached for a croissant, his movements precise and unhurried.

Then, his voice, low and resonant, cut through the quiet. “I’m not a babysitter.”

My mother gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth, but Mr. Ashford’s brow furrowed, a rare sign of displeasure. “She’s not a child, Dante,” his father replied, his eyes narrowing just slightly, a subtle warning in his tone. “She’s your stepsister now. And I’m sure you can handle the ride. It’s barely out of your way.”

A beat of silence stretched, thick and pregnant with unspoken defiance. Dante slowly leaned back in his chair, a picture of indolent power. His gaze, finally, slid to me, dark and knowing. His eyes dropped—slowly, deliberately—to the sketchpad still resting beside his plate, then back to my face. A spark, cold and dangerous, ignited deep within their depths. A challenge. An invitation to a game I hadn't agreed to play.

His voice, when it came, was velvet-coated venom, laced with an unsettling sweetness that made it even more menacing. “Sure. I’ll take her.” The words were a concession, but the tone promised retribution.

Ten minutes later, I found myself strapped into the passenger seat of his sleek black sports car, the low growl of the engine a visceral hum beneath me. The interior was all dark leather and brushed chrome, smelling faintly of a high-end cologne and something else, something uniquely his. The kind of expensive, masculine scent that clung to the air and demanded attention.

I hadn’t spoken a word since we left the mansion. My throat felt too tight, my tongue too thick.

Neither had he. He simply gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his profile a study in rigid control as he navigated the winding driveway.

The engine purred like a predator, a powerful, barely restrained beast beneath us, vibrating through the car’s chassis and into my seat. It mirrored the latent energy radiating from him. We pulled out of the estate gates, the manicured lawns and towering trees quickly giving way to the bustling, indifferent city. Office buildings blurred by in streaks of glass and steel, traffic lights blinked, and horns blared, but inside the car, it was a contained universe of simmering tension.

I could feel it rolling off him in waves, like a palpable heat, filling the small space between us. It was a pressure, an unspoken demand for my awareness, my attention. My fingers tightened on the strap of my backpack, the worn fabric a small comfort.

“You didn’t have to keep it,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper, hesitant but firm, breaking the suffocating silence. It was a desperate attempt to assert some control, to acknowledge the elephant in the car: my exposed vulnerability.

He glanced at me, slow and lazy, his dark eyes cutting through the air, piercing. One hand remained casually on the wheel, guiding the car with effortless precision. The other, long and elegant, tapped a restless rhythm against his thigh, a silent indicator of the contained power simmering beneath his calm exterior.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet still carrying that underlying edge of cruelty. He wasn't talking about my drawing skills; he was talking about the subject, about him. “You draw people like they’re broken.”

My gaze snapped to the window, watching the blur of the city, my jaw clenching. His words were a direct hit, straight to the core of my art, to the very nature of how I saw the world. “Some people are,” I retorted, my voice regaining a little of its strength, a defensive prickle rising. It was true. I drew what I saw, and often, what I saw was flawed, scarred, fractured.

He didn’t respond. The silence thickened again, heavier this time, layered with the weight of my defiant truth and his unyielding judgment. The hum of the engine seemed to grow louder, filling the void. I could feel his gaze on me, even though I refused to meet it. It was an oppressive weight, a constant pressure that made my skin prickle.

Then, suddenly, his voice, low and dangerous, startling me with its abruptness. “What do you think gives you the right to write about me?”

My head whipped around, my pulse pounding a frantic drum against my eardrums. My eyes, wide with a mixture of shock and indignation, finally met his. He wasn’t looking at the road; he was looking at me, his eyes blazing with a cold fury. “What gives you the right to talk to me like I’m trash?” I shot back, the words tumbling out before I could second-guess them. The unfairness of it, the sheer audacity of his condescension, fueled my courage.

That smile again. Slow. Dangerous. This time, it reached his eyes—but only just. It was a flicker of dark amusement, a flash of something predatory that sent a shiver down my spine. “I talk to trash however I want, sweetheart.” The endearment, uttered with such contempt, was a deliberate, calculated insult.

I rolled my eyes, a desperate attempt to appear unaffected, to show him he didn’t bother me. But something inside me fluttered, a nervous bird trapped in my chest, beating its wings against my ribs. It was fear, yes, but also… something else. A strange, undeniable spark of challenge.

“I’m not scared of you,” I said, my voice bolder than I felt, a desperate plea to myself as much as a declaration to him.

“Good,” he said, his eyes still locked on mine as he took a sharp turn, the sudden centrifugal force making my shoulder brush against his arm. The brief contact sent a jolt through me, a shocking awareness of his solid warmth, the lean muscle beneath his shirt. “Because I don’t want you scared.”

He glanced at me again, his gaze dragging across my face, slow and intimate like a secret being unveiled, his eyes lingering on my lips, then my eyes. The intensity of it was disorienting, suffocating. He leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a low, husky murmur, a sound that resonated deep within my core.

“I want you awake.”

The words hung in the charged air, a haunting echo. Awake to what? To his cruelty? To the dark undercurrents of this new life? Or to something else entirely, something far more dangerous and alluring than fear? The question lingered, an unspoken promise of a turbulent journey, a terrifying education I had not asked for but was undeniably about to receive.