Stay Off My Lane
LILIANA’S POV
The ride from the hospital to Ronny’s house felt less like a drive and more like an abduction.
He didn’t ask.
He didn’t explain.
He simply signed my discharge papers, scooped up my bag, and steered me toward his car like a man on a mission.
Every attempt at protest earned me nothing but a look—one of those sharp, smoldering glares that could cut through steel.
“Ronny,” I said for the fifth time, gripping the seatbelt as the city blurred past the tinted windows. “I need to go home first. I have clothes. A toothbrush. Maybe a shred of dignity?”
“No.” His voice was low, final.
“No?” I repeated, my eyebrows shooting up. “That’s it? No explanation? Just a caveman grunt?”
His hands tightened on the wheel, tendons flexing against the ink that coiled up his arms. “You don’t need to pack. You’ll have everything you need.”
“Oh, will I?” I crossed my arms, biting back a laugh. “Are you psychic now? Do you know the exact brand of toothpaste I use?”
His jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer. Typical Ronny—infuriatingly silent when he knew he was being ridiculous.
I turned toward the window, fuming. The hospital was miles behind us now, swallowed by the night. The city lights melted into the dark stretch of his private road, tall trees arching over us like sentries.
The gates to his home loomed ahead, black iron and intimidation wrapped in one massive structure. They opened without a sound, swallowing us whole.
My heart did a weird flip. I’d been here before, but tonight it felt… different. Bigger. Darker.
The tires crunched over the gravel driveway until we stopped in front of the mansion. The stone façade glowed under soft amber lights, a fortress disguised as a home.
Ronny killed the engine and stepped out, his movements fluid, controlled. He came around to my side, opening the door with a look that dared me to argue.
I stayed seated, chin tilted in defiance.
“Liliana.” His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. “Out.”
“Do I look like a stray cat you can just—”
Before I could finish, he held out his hand. Not gentle. Not pleading. Commanding.
I rolled my eyes and swung my legs out, ignoring the way his hand hovered, waiting. I stepped down on my own, my boots crunching against the gravel. “Thanks, but I’m perfectly capable of exiting a vehicle without a babysitter.”
His mouth curved—just slightly—but he didn’t take the bait.
The night air smelled of pine and cold stone. My skin prickled, not from the chill, but from the sheer force of his presence as he fell into step beside me.
Inside, the mansion smelled faintly of cedar and leather. Warm lights flickered across the polished wood floors. Maria, the housekeeper, appeared in the hallway, her face breaking into a wide smile.
“Miss Liliana,” she greeted, her accent soft and lilting. “Welcome back.”
“Maria,” I said warmly, my irritation softening for a heartbeat. “You’re the only reason I don’t stage a full-on escape right now.”
Her eyes twinkled, but before she could respond, Ronny’s hand slid around mine.
Not a gentle brush. A firm, possessive grip.
I stiffened. “Ronny—”
“Upstairs.” His tone brooked no argument.
I yanked at my hand. “Excuse me? Am I five?”
His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who was stronger. “You just got out of the hospital. You’re not running around this house unsupervised.”
I dug my heels into the carpeted stairs, glaring up at him. “I’m not a flight risk. And this isn’t Alcatraz.”
His only response was a low grunt as he all but hauled me to the second floor.
By the time we reached his bedroom door, my chest was tight with a cocktail of fury and something far more dangerous—heat.
He pushed the door open and guided me inside.
I stumbled a step, blinking at the sheer size of the room. Dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A bed big enough to qualify as its own country.
Then I realized where I was.
I spun around, eyes flashing. “Hold up. Why am I in your room?”
Ronny leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. The tattoos on his forearms shifted with the movement, wicked and mesmerizing. “Because I need you where I can see you. Where you won’t try something stupid.”
My mouth fell open. “Are you insane? Do I look like your prisoner?”
His eyes hardened, the steel in them making my pulse jump. “I’m being cautious.”
“Cautious?” I threw my arms wide. “This is not caution. This is a Netflix documentary waiting to happen.”
“Ask Maria if you need anything,” he said evenly, ignoring my theatrics. “Your clothes are in the closet.”
I froze. “…What?”
“You heard me.”
Confusion prickled through the anger. My eyes narrowed as I turned toward the massive walk-in closet.
“Ronny,” I warned, “if you’ve stocked that thing with hospital gowns, I swear—”
The second I stepped inside, the words died on my tongue.
Rows of clothes lined the walls. Dresses, jeans, jackets—my style. Soft fabrics. Rich colors. Every size tag matched mine. There were even shoes. Heels I’d drooled over but never bought. Boots that screamed my name.
And hanging right beside them, his own wardrobe of black and charcoal. My colors threaded through his like some kind of twisted, beautiful invasion.
I gripped the doorframe, my heart hammering.
This wasn’t just caution. This was… preparation.
I turned slowly, finding him leaning against the door, watching me with that infuriatingly unreadable expression.
“You—” My voice came out hoarse. “You did this?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You needed clothes.”
“Ronny,” I whispered, stepping toward him. “These are new. This isn’t you grabbing a few things from my apartment. You—” My breath caught. “You planned this.”
He said nothing. Didn’t even blink.
The silence stretched, heavy and electric.
Something inside me twisted. Anger, yes. But also a dark, undeniable thrill.
I hated how much I liked it.
I hated the way his quiet possessiveness made my skin burn.
I hated him for knowing exactly what it did to me.
I straightened, masking the chaos inside with a sharp glare. “Stay off my lane, Ronny.”
His eyes finally flicked to mine, dark and burning. “Not a chance.”
The words hit me like a spark to gasoline.
I backed out of the closet, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “I mean it,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “I’m not some trophy you can lock in a cage.”
He pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance between us in two slow, deliberate steps.
“Good,” he said, his voice low, rough. “Because if you were a trophy, I wouldn’t have to chase you.”
Heat slammed into me like a tidal wave. My breath caught.
For a terrifying second, I wanted to close the gap. To feel the warmth of his chest against mine. To taste the danger in the air.
Instead, I shoved at his shoulder and stormed past him, my pulse screaming betrayal at my own body.
“Stay off my lane,” I threw over my shoulder, sharper this time.
I didn’t wait for his reply. I needed distance—space to breathe, to think, to not melt.
But even as I crossed the room, the echo of his voice followed me.
Not a chance.
I hated how much I wanted to hear it again.
****
I made it to the hallway before I slowed, my palm pressed to the cool wall. My heartbeat refused to settle. My skin buzzed like I’d swallowed lightning.
I should be furious.
I was furious.
So why did every cell in my body hum with the memory of his nearness?
Because you like it, a traitorous voice whispered.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to shove the thought away. This wasn’t love. This was adrenaline. A reaction to danger.
But danger had never felt so intoxicating.
Later, after Maria brought me tea and showed me a cozy guest room down the hall (a room I fully intended to occupy), I lay awake staring at the ceiling.
I should have been asleep. I should have been plotting my escape. Instead, my mind replayed every look, every word, every touch.
Ronny’s voice haunted the silence.
‘Not a chance.’
The possessive growl in those three words curled low in my stomach like a slow burn.
I turned over, shoving the pillow beneath my head. “Stay off my lane,” I whispered into the darkness, trying to convince myself.
But deep down, a reckless, treacherous part of me didn’t want him to.
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