Five Brutal Four 4

Tasha's breath hitched the moment Clinton's gaze locked onto hers. The air between them grew thick, the silence stretching unbearably as he took a slow, deliberate step forward. His presence alone felt suffocating, his body heat seeping into her skin even though he hadn't touched her—yet.

Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic rhythm she was certain he could hear. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look away, but it was too late. He was close now—too close. His chest was just inches from hers, his scent wrapping around her like an unshakable spell.

Clinton tilted his head slightly, studying her with a lazy kind of amusement. "What do you want?" His voice was low, quiet, almost teasing.

Tasha's breath came unevenly, her mind scrambling for an answer. What did she want? His heart? His attention? His love?

Her throat felt painfully dry as she dared to lift her eyes to his. "Your love," she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips.

For a moment, there was nothing. No reaction. No shift in his expression. Then, slowly, Clinton leaned back, a small smirk playing on his lips. He shook his head, biting his lower lip in a way that made her stomach tighten.

Tasha's pulse stuttered. What was he thinking? Was he mocking her? She searched his face for an answer, desperate to understand what went on behind those unreadable eyes.

His gaze drifted, moving from her eyes to her lips, then lower, lingering briefly before returning to her face. He had heard those words before. Too many times. From too many girls. And just like always, the novelty wore off quickly.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his fingers reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

Tasha inhaled sharply, shyness washing over her as warmth spread across her cheeks.

"But…" he added, his voice as smooth as velvet, "you're very unkempt."

The word hit her harder than a slap.

Unkempt.

Tasha froze, her hands instinctively brushing down the hem of her dress, as if fixing the fabric could erase the sting of his words. Her stomach twisted, the shame creeping in fast. She hadn't expected him to say that. If she had known he'd be here—standing this close, looking at her like this—she would have dressed better. Maybe tied her hair differently. Worn something prettier.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, willing herself not to cry. If it had been anyone else, she might have laughed it off. But from him? The boy she'd secretly loved from afar? It felt like a punch to the chest.

Clinton's smirk didn't fade. "You hid in my closet for my love?" His tone was laced with disbelief, his amusement evident.

Tasha's voice wavered. "I was here to clean," she said, barely above a whisper.

Clinton scoffed. "With the brush on the floor and sanitizer on the dresser?" He arched a brow, his smirk deepening. "Oh, I see. You're the reason my curtains were left open… and my door unlocked?"

"I was still cleaning!" she blurted, her voice cracking. She didn't care if he heard the desperation laced in her words. The hurt was already sinking in, twisting in her chest like a knife.

Clinton sighed, lifting a hand in a gesture for her to stop talking. "Never mind," he muttered, his expression unreadable. "Just walk away." His tone was final.

Tasha hesitated, searching his face one last time for something—anything. But there was nothing there. No softness. No regret.

He turned toward the bathroom without another word.

Tasha forced herself to move, picking up the cleaning tools with trembling hands. As she stepped out, the scent of his cologne lingered in the air, taunting her.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, her legs carried her away, faster than she intended. She needed to be alone. Needed to process what had just happened.

But just as she reached the end of the hallway, a voice stopped her.

"Are you alright?"

Tasha stiffened, quickly wiping at her eyes before turning to see a woman standing just a step away.

Jose.

Tasha hadn't even noticed her approaching, lost in her thoughts. The red-haired woman looked strikingly like Clinton, her sharp, observant eyes scanning Tasha's face.

"You look like you're about to cry," Jose said, her tone gentle yet firm. She took a step closer. "Did something happen?"

Tasha forced a smile, shaking her head quickly. "I'm fine," she lied.

Jose's gaze lingered on her for a long moment, unconvinced. "Are you sure?"

Tasha nodded again, though the tightness in her throat threatened to betray her. "Just tired from cleaning," she added, hoping that would be enough.

Jose studied her carefully. "I've heard about you," she said after a pause. "My mom's spoken highly of your father."

Tasha gave a weak smile, nodding.

Jose's gaze flickered downward, and she noticed the sanitizer bottle in Tasha's hand. "You were cleaning?"

Tasha swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Where?"

"Clinton's room," Tasha admitted hesitantly.

Jose's brows lifted in surprise. "Oh, is he in?" she asked, glancing toward the hallway. "I've been looking for him."

Tasha's stomach twisted. "I—um, I don't know."

Jose didn't seem to catch her hesitation. "You have the key, right?" she asked, stepping past her. "Can you open the door for me?"

Tasha's pulse spiked. "The key," she mumbled, her face heating up. "I… I think I left it inside."

Jose blinked. "How did the door get locked, then?"

Tasha panicked. "Maybe Clinton locked it himself," she rushed out.

Jose frowned, knocking on the door. No answer.

"Maybe he's asleep," Tasha suggested, desperately hoping Jose would drop it.

Jose sighed, stepping back. "I wanted to see him before I left." She glanced at her watch. "I guess I'll just call him later."

Tasha exhaled in relief as Jose turned away, finally allowing her a moment to breathe.

But then—

"You, come back."

Tasha froze.

Clinton's voice.

Slowly, she turned, her heart nearly leaping out of her chest as she saw him standing by the wall, shirtless, his eyes locked onto her.

"Come here," he ordered, motioning for her to step closer.

Her feet refused to move.

Clinton exhaled sharply, his impatience clear. "You wanted my love, right? Fine. I'll show you."

Before she could react, he strode toward her, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her back toward his room.

The door shut behind them.

Tasha barely had time to process before his voice came again, quieter this time, but no less intense.

"Why did you knock on my door?"

Her lips parted, the denial on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to tell him it wasn't her—it was his sister. But before she could speak, Clinton closed the space between them.

And then, without warning, his lips crashed against hers.