Walked Into A Dream Accidentally

"I didn't see anything," Winter said quickly, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.

Darren's gaze didn't waver. His damp hair clung to his temples, a single drop sliding down his sculpted jaw. There was no towel around his waist, just dark slacks, and his bare torso glistened under the ambient golden lights of the penthouse.

Muscles cut with precision, a tattoo swirling over his ribs, disappearing around his back like a secret map. Her pulse thudded.

"What exactly do you mean by nothing?" he asked, voice low, measured.

"I mean," she said, stepping back just a little, "I saw a message. Just one. And I didn't snoop further."

Silence stretched between them.

His jaw tightened for a beat before he turned away, grabbing his phone from the couch with a swipe.

The device buzzed in his hand, like it had been waiting for him.

He looked down. His expression didn't change.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the tall glass windows, pressing the phone to his ear. "Yeah," he answered, voice clipped. "I'll call you back."

Winter stayed rooted in place, her palms still clammy. Her gaze followed his figure—sharp, confident, unreadable.

She took a deep breath and dropped onto one of the oversized cream armchairs, gripping the arms like she needed something solid to hold onto. Her body was tight with tension, her thoughts spiraling.

What did Beta Norman mean? How did Darren know a Beta?

Or worse—had he known who she was all along?

Before she could chase those thoughts further, the sound of wheels rolling over polished wood reached her ears. She turned.

A tall woman, Spanish-looking and elegantly built like a runway model, pushed a rolling hanger full of sleek dresses through the hallway. She wore a black tailored uniform with gold embroidery and a discreet name tag. Her hair was tied into a flawless chignon, and she had the kind of effortless grace Winter couldn't replicate in ten lifetimes.

She smiled warmly. "Buona sera, Miss. I'm Lucia. I attend only the penthouse guests." Her accent was smooth and lovely. "Mr. Riggs said you would need some business attire. Please, take your pick."

Winter blinked. "These are for me?"

Lucia nodded. "Yes. We have your size. Would you like me to help you choose?"

Winter stood slowly, walking toward the rack. Her fingers brushed over silk, linen, and fine crepe. Every dress looked like something from a magazine spread, sharp-lined elegance with whispers of power in every stitch. She paused at a black gown—knee-length, with gold intricacies threaded into the sleeves and neckline. The fabric was thick enough to hide the angry scar at her upper thigh.

"I'll take this one," Winter said softly, still staring at it.

Lucia nodded. "Excellent choice. I will prepare it for you. You may have a shower first, if you'd like. Then come back and try it on."

Winter hesitated. "Darren's using the bathroom," she muttered under her breath.

Lucia tilted her head with a smile. "There are three bathrooms in the penthouse. One just behind the sliding doors upstairs, adjacent to the dressing area. Would you like me to show you?"

Winter gave a faint nod, still overwhelmed by the wealth and silence.

Lucia walked her toward a spiral staircase made of pale wood and brass. "Take the steps," she said. "When you get to the top, slide the left-hand door open. There's a dressing room and a bathroom attached. You'll find everything you need there."

"Thank you," Winter said, the words dry on her tongue.

She climbed the stairs slowly, her bare feet brushing against smooth wood. The penthouse expanded even further at the top, revealing skylights and arched windows that framed the Florentine skyline like a dream.

At the end of a small hallway, she found the sliding door. She pushed it aside gently and stepped into what looked like a boutique—shelves lined with perfumes, drawers labeled with initials, and a full mirror set in a gold frame.

A door caught her eye. That had to be the bathroom.

Still unsettled but eager to shake off the tension, she padded toward it and opened it gently.

But the moment she stepped inside, she froze.

There, in the middle of the steam-filled room, stood Darren.

Naked.

His back was to her.

Toned muscles rippled under his damp skin as he reached for a bottle and sprayed something onto his shoulder. The scent hit her instantly—masculine, cedarwood and leather, smoky citrus and pine. Intoxicating.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The tattoo on his back wasn't a single symbol—it was a constellation of lines and sharp curves, a blend of tribal and runic, like a story drawn into flesh. It curved along his shoulder blades, wrapped around his left ribcage. Something ancient. Something powerful.

Winter's pulse thundered.

Darren paused. She didn't know if it was instinct, scent, or just sixth sense—but his head tilted slightly, as if he felt her.

She panicked and took a step back—but the door creaked behind her.

He turned.

Only partially.

Not enough for her to see everything, but enough to lock eyes with her in the mirror across from them.

His gaze didn't waver.

Winter opened her mouth to say something—anything—but her words dried.

And then he smirked.

The barest flicker of amusement curled his lips.

"I thought you saw nothing," he murmured.

Winter's cheeks flamed. "I didn't mean to walk in—Lucia said this was a separate bathroom. I didn't know you'd…"

"I wasn't expecting you so soon either," he said, not moving to cover himself. "Yet here you are."

Her body was on fire, heart hammering against her ribs, palms clammy and nerves a complete mess. But his voice—low, calm, with that maddening hint of arrogance—made her feel like she was the one who'd trespassed into a dream.

"I'll go," she said quickly, turning on her heel.

But before she could reach the door, his voice stopped her again.

"Winter."

She looked back, her hand hovering on the knob.

His eyes bored into her, the steam casting him in soft gold.

"About the message," he said. "We'll talk. Not now. But I won't lie to you."

She blinked, caught off guard.

"And you shouldn't lie to yourself either," he added, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips parted. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he just turned back around, leaving her staring at the intricate tattoos on his skin and the swirl of heat that rose in her chest.

Winter stepped out, the door clicking behind her.

But her heart hadn't calmed.

Not even close.