Page 1 of Covert Desires

Chapter one

The Knock

(Kiah)

Nobodyknocksat2AM.

Not during the off-season.

Anddefinitely not during a tropical storm.

Yet there it is again—urgent pounding that cuts through the howl of wind and rain, forcing my paintbrush to halt mid-stroke.

Every instinct, honed from years I'd rather forget, screams danger. The smart play would be to keep painting my black flowers, to let the storm swallow whoever's out there.

But something about that frantic rhythm stirs a dormant part of me. An itch I thought I'd buried along with my past life. When was the last time my heart raced with anything but morning cardio?

The hammering grows more insistent. A voice carries between thunderclaps—male, desperate, demanding.

Fuck-it.

I set down my brush, dark paint dripping like blood onto the newspaper-covered floor.

"Hold on!" I call out, flicking on lights as I move through my sanctuary to the inn’s adjoining door. The storm throws shadows that dance like enemy combatants across my walls.

When I unlatch the door, the wind nearly tears it from my grip. And there he stands—six-foot-something of trouble, drenched to his bones.

In the dim yellow glow of the porch light, the unannounced guest looks like an unsettling mix of serial killer. He’s handsome by any standard, but I’m way past the age of letting dangerous men with haunted looks upset my entire world.Fuck that.

His raven hair is plastered to a face that belongs in a fashion magazine, all sharp angles and dangerous beauty. But it's his eyes that give me pause—arctic blue and feral, like a wolf's in winter. They lock onto mine with an intensity that sends electricity down my spine.

"About fucking time," the man snarls, trying to shoulder past me. His expensive suit, now ruined, clings to a frame that speaks of carefully honed strength. One arm clutches a duffel bag like it contains his soul.

I plant myself firmly in the doorway. "What do you want?" Years of training keep my voice steady, even as adrenaline floods my system. You don't survive 44 years on this earth by letting strange men into your home at night, no matter how pretty their packaging.

Know your enemy; know your target. This drenched man could be either. Except I have no idea who he is.

He doesn’t fit the profile of the island-adventure guests who usually stay at my inn. Even if he did, this is not the time for island adventuring.

"Room for one. This is an inn, isn't it?" His accent carries old money and fresh blood. Up close, I catch the metallic scent that rain can't quite wash away.

That's when I see it—a nasty gash on his temple, still weeping crimson. His white shirt is torn at the shoulder, revealing more than just storm damage.

This man isn't running from the weather.

I've spent too many years in the game not to recognize a hunted animal when I see one. He's young—late twenties maybe—but his eyes tell a story of violence that matches my own despite our obvious age gap.

"We're closed," I say, crossing my arms. "The inn doesn't open until December."

“Hmm. Doesn’t matter,” he declares, shouldering past me with a force that sends me stumbling back. The movement is deliberate, a test of boundaries.

“What part of we’re closed was unclear?” My voice carries steel, but he's already made himself at home, his soaked frame claiming my closest couch. Water pools beneath him, dark against the worn fabric.

My jaw locks as I watch him drip all over my furniture. "Go somewhere else."

The fucker is going to ruin my couches—not that the mismatched set in Reception is fancy or anything. Still, I prefer my furniture dry, just like my floor. I don’t want guests complaining about a moldy smell.

“No. It has to be here,” he insists, fingers tightening on the armrest.

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