One-night stand with cheating fiancé's uncle

Isla nearly bit her tongue clean off as she stumbled over the word. "H-husband."

The word hung in the air, and her cheeks flushed bright crimson an instant later.

Damari swapped his dress shoes for a pair of soft, worn slippers, then handed a brand-new pair straight to Isla. "These are for you. Try 'em on, see if they fit."

Isla kicked off her heels and slipped them on. They were perfectly broken in, soft as cloud under her feet—no flashy logos, just solid, quiet craftsmanship.

Stepping into his home for the first time, she noticed it matched the vibe of his office entirely: understated, but impossibly imposing. The warmth of the space was muted by how huge it was, leaving a strange, hollow hush that felt almost deserted.

Damari curled his fingers around her wrist and tugged her toward the sofa. "Sit."

Isla didn't even think before she obeyed, sitting down almost on pure instinct.

He stepped out for a minute and came back with a first aid kit. Isla sat up straight, legs pressed together, hands folded primly in her lap—polished, but tight as a stretched wire. To Damari, she looked so small, so obedient, and oddly enough, it twisted something soft in his chest.

He set the kit down beside her on the sofa and dropped to one knee at her feet. "Give me your hand."

Only then did it click what he was doing—he meant to fix her cut finger. "It's fine, Mr. Evans, the bleeding already stopped."

Damari's voice dropped, firmer this time. "Give it to me."

Isla stared at his outstretched hand. He'd rolled his sleeves up neatly, revealing sharply defined forearms, veins snaking over his skin like an intricate old map. His long, clean fingers looked like they'd been carved from marble.

Droplets of shower water still clung to his skin, adding a quiet, intoxicating heat that made her stomach flip.

Isla hesitated. Her hand trembled when she held it out halfway, then yanked it back, nerves getting the better of her.

A strong hand closed around her wrist before she could retreat, yanking her indecision right out the window.

Beneath the crystal chandelier that brushed almost ten feet high, every flicker of her expression, every edge of her raw cut, was laid bare for Damari to see.

The bleeding had stopped, but the old band-aid was crusted dark red, proof of how bad the cut had been.

Damari peeled the old adhesive off slow, careful not to tear at her skin. "Mr. Evans, you can press harder," Isla said quickly. "I don't mind the pain."

While other girls grew up spoiled and coddled by their families, hers had only ever been a source of nothing but trouble. The only one who'd ever given her any comfort, any peace, was her brother Mack.

Years of that had toughened her up. She'd learned to carry her hurt quiet, never complaining.

Damari's eyes stayed fixed on her finger, his voice low and soft when he spoke. "Just because you can handle pain doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

Those gentle words landed heavy in the hollow of Isla's chest, sinking deep.

When the band-aid came off, the cut was still raw, pink and angry against the cool air.

Instinct told Isla to yank her hand back, but Damari tightened his grip just enough to hold her still. "Don't move. I'm gonna disinfect it. It might sting a little, just bear with me."

He cleaned every trace of old blood off with saline, slathered on antibacterial ointment, then wrapped it tight with sterile gauze, methodical and careful the whole time.

It wasn't just a tiny nick—almost an inch long, deep enough that it would need a few days to heal.

Isla stayed completely silent while he worked, true to her word that she didn't fear pain.

But what she did fear was this: being alone here with him, in his quiet, too-big house.

"Mr. Evans, I'm all good now. It's getting late, I should probably head home..."

Damari, still kneeling at her feet, looked up at her. There was an emotion in his gaze she couldn't parse, couldn't name.

That intense, unblinking stare made her skin prickle with unease. Maybe it was just the heat of the room, but a thin layer of sweat broke out across the back of her shirt.

Finally, Damari spoke. "You know how to make hangover soup?"

"When it's done, bring it up to the second floor." He gave the instruction flat, then turned and headed up the stairs before she could answer.

The faint tang of alcohol lingered in the air behind him, and Isla realized he'd drunk heavily that night. She hurried straight for the kitchen.

She knew half a dozen hangover soup recipes by heart—something she'd picked out of necessity. When Mack got his kidney disease, her dad started drinking every night. Drunk, he'd either scream and hurl insults or throw punches.

Damari was the most composed person she'd ever met. Even drunk, he didn't make a scene. He'd still stopped to bandage her cut, even when he was half out of it.

Staring at the fresh gauze wrapped around her finger, it hit her: he was the first person besides Mack that had ever been this gentle with her. This careful.

Isla pulled out the ingredients, rinsed the herbs under cool running water, and set them to boil. She seeded and sliced lemons, set them aside to add once the soup cooled, stirred in honey, then tossed in pre-soaked oats and barley, letting it simmer low while she waited. When it was done, she carried it up the stairs.

The whole second floor was dark, except for one room glowing under the door. That had to be his.

Even though the door was cracked open, Isla knocked polite before stepping inside.

The master bedroom was lit by only one small bedside lamp, casting a warm gold glow over everything. Damari was sprawled out across the king-sized bed, his shirt collar unbuttoned, hair messy from sleep, a few dark strands fallen over his forehead.

Isla set the soup down on the nightstand, and realized he was already out cold.

The soft light gilded his sharp, chiseled features, stripping away the cold aloofness he wore during the day, leaving a surprisingly soft, approachable look underneath.

Since he was already asleep, the soup could wait.

Isla flipped off the lamp, turned to leave, and a strong hand clamped down around her wrist out of nowhere. One second she was standing by the bed, the next she was being tugged right into his solid, warm chest.

"Mr. Evans..." she breathed.

His arm wrapped tight around her waist, holding her pressed flush against him, no give at all.

Damari leaned in closer, his warm breath fanning over the shell of her ear, voice thick and foggy with sleep. "Stay."

Isla froze. Her breath caught in her throat and wouldn't come out.

The room was almost pitch black, only faint streetlight seeping through the curtains, barely enough to make out the outline of the furniture.

When he didn't say anything else, panic started to creep up her throat. She'd never been in a situation like this, never felt this out of control.

She tried again, voice wobbly. "Mr. Evans, the hangover soup is done. You can drink it whenever you wake up."

But he didn't answer. His warm breath just kept fanning over her neck, steady and slow.

Isla twisted carefully, trying to nudge him awake.

Damari was usually hyper-alert, razor-sharp, but the alcohol had blunted all his senses tonight. Every guard he kept up was down. When talking didn't work, she tried touching.

She pressed her uninjured hand light to his solid chest, prodding gentle. "Mr. Evans, wake up."

His chest was hard and firm under her palm, but he didn't even stir.

She tapped his cheek soft, careful not to jar him—her touch was so light it couldn't have woken anyone, really.

Finally, she reached for his thick wrist, shaking it gentle, voice pleading. "Mr. Evans, please let me go."

"Mr. Evans? Damari? Little Dam?"

He opened his eyes. His voice was still cool, thick with sleep but sharp enough to cut. "Who said you could call me that?"

Isla's mind went blank. She'd only heard the nickname from his grandfather, and she had no excuse, no explanation.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Evans, I..."

He cut her off before she could finish, unexpected. "Call me brother."