Page 3 of Daddy Erik
“Efficient.”
We move through the shop together; I help her finish up with her closing routine before she gathers her purse, and we head for the door. When she passes by to unlock the top bolt, our arms brush, and static sparks through me like a live current.
Outside, the world smells of wet pavement and leaves. Water pools under the streetlights, trembling with reflected gold.
Outside her building, she fumbles with the key. I take it gently, lock the top bolt myself, and hand it back.
“Top bolt,” I remind her.
She huffs out a frustrated sigh, then her eyes lift to mine. “Good?”
“Perfect.”
The word feels heavier than it should, like a promise, and with her, it is.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“For what?”
“For being the man who checks locks.”
I walk her to my car parked across the street; she sits inside, leaving only the echo of her perfume and the sound of the rain.
Through the glass, I catch one last glimpse of Claire buckling her seatbelt and adjusting her outfit, apparently unaware I amstaring at her through the passenger window. Without being too much of a creep, I walk around the car towards the driver’s side.
The nameKameliablomst,also known as "Camellia blossom" in English, comes to my mind. The flower is beautiful and yet withers away if plucked too soon. Looking over at Claire, that is what I see. Claire is a beautiful flower that, if plucked too soon, will disappear, a possibility I'm not willing to allow.
The family expects seven shields to guard the empire, but the truth is simpler. I want to protect the beauty that emerges when she no longer has to bear the weight of the world alone.
Claire
The storm outside has softened to a hypnotic lullaby, its soft, rhythmic drumming a soothing sound. I lean against the door, my palms flat against the cool, solid wood, my heartbeat a frantic drum against my ribs, trying to keep pace with the receding thunder. Erik Halvorsen. The name itself feels weighty, like polished stone, deliberate and strong, belonging to a man who commands silence without a shout. But, it’s not the name that echoes in the quiet room. It’s his palpable presence, a sternness cloaked in an undeniable air of authority.
The air still smells faintly of him: masculine, rain, and something a little darker that doesn’t come from any bottle. I close my eyes and inhale the scent, allowing the storm's rhythm and my pounding heart to find a balance.
It feels like ages since Grace first introduced us. Each dinner at the Halvorsens' since then has been like stepping into a Viking saga: seven sons, radiating a palpable power and purpose that crackles in the air, their booming laughter echoing off thewalls. Grace, a warm and steady glow, shines among them like sunlight filtering through stained glass. I've always been the quiet observer, a still point on the periphery of something vast and ancient, my breath catching in my chest with silent wonder.
Erik's presence is a quiet anchor, not a boisterous takeover. His laughter is a hushed ripple, a gentle acceptance of joy. His eyes, a paradox of calm surfaces and hidden depths, mirror the ocean's gray days, deceptively serene, yet holding an unseen, powerful current that draws you in, a beauty as alluring as it is potentially overwhelming.
I wander into the kitchen. My fingertips graze the cool, slightly gritty surface of the worn faux-marble counter as I pull the refrigerator door shut, a faint plastic-and-metal scent clinging to the air. The apartment's low, constant hum vibrates beneath my feet, a subtle reminder of its perpetual disarray; dust motes dance in the dim light, untouched by a cleaning I never find time for. I tell myself the distant rumble of thunder is the sole cause of my jitters.
But that's a lie. It's him. A tremor of unease should run through me, knowing he'd insisted on driving me home tonight. His gaze scrutinized every detail, capturing the unpredictable flicker of the alley light and the vacant stare of a malfunctioning security camera. It should feel invasive and stifling, like a cage being built around me. But instead, a surprising warmth spreads through my chest, a sense of solid safety.
He is a man who locks doors, not because he doubts your strength, but because he refuses to allow the world to test it. Grace once said the Halvorsen men love with a kind of ferocity that rebuilds what the world breaks. I laughed at that back then, the sound brittle in the air. No one loves like that. No one sees someone else’s ruin and chooses to stay. But tonight, when Erik looked at me and said "Kameliablomst," a soft murmur that hung in the quiet car, I felt something shift.
A quiet thread pulls tight somewhere under my skin, a warmth spreading like spilled ink, threading me to him in a way that feels older than both of us. I walk to the window, the cool glass a shock against my fingertips. I part the heavy curtain, its rough weave scratching lightly, just enough to watch the raindrops pit-drop on the slick, glistening parking lot pavement of my apartment building.
My grandmother used to tell me stories before bed, her voice a low hum, about men who carried storms in their blood and women who called them home. She said the right man doesn’t cage you; he builds the walls only to keep the wind, an icy whisper against your neck, off your back.
I used to think she was dreaming. Now, I’m not so sure.
I head to my door and lock it, but pause at the top lock and touch it again. The metal is still warm where his hand lingered. My thumb traces the shape, slow and thoughtful.
“Top bolt,” I whisper, smiling despite myself.
The storm outside has subsided to a drizzle, but my heart remains steadfast. I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of fear, desire, or both. Whatever the connection is between us, it doesn’t feel ordinary. It feels inevitable. And for the first time, I don’t want to run from it.
CHAPTER ONE
