Page 25 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Savannah

T he morning light filtered through Lucas's bedroom blinds, painting stripes across his sleeping form.

I studied him in the gentle dawn—the silver hair tousled from sleep, the strong planes of his face softened, the body that had claimed mine so thoroughly last night now vulnerable in repose.

How had I gotten here again?

In his bed, in his life, despite the catastrophic breach of trust I'd created? The question haunted me as I carefully slipped from beneath his arm, gathering my scattered clothing from the floor.

I needed space.

Needed to breathe.

Needed to think without the magnetic pull of his presence clouding my judgment.

The bathroom door closed behind me with a soft click. I avoided my reflection in the mirror, knowing what I'd see—a woman coming undone.

A woman surrendering to patterns she'd promised herself she'd break.

The shower's steam created a cocoon of temporary escape as I tried to make sense of what was happening between us.

Last night had been unlike anything we'd shared before. Not just physically—though the raw intensity had bordered on punishing—but emotionally.

There had been anger in Lucas's touch, possession in his demands, but beneath it all, something that terrified me more than his controlled fury.

Need. Vulnerability.

The same desperate clinging I felt building inside my own chest.

I was falling in love with Lucas Turner. Had maybe already fallen.

And rather than running—the rational, self-preserving choice—I kept moving closer to the flame, mesmerized by its destructive beauty.

By the time I emerged, wrapped in his oversized bathrobe, he was awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, already halfway back to being Lucas Turner, CEO. The man who controlled everything in his sphere.

"Good morning," he said, his voice neutral as he set down his phone. "Sleep well?"

The polite distance in his tone stung more than his anger had.

"Well enough," I lied.

In truth, I'd slept more deeply than I had in the four days since our confrontation at the hospital, safe in the knowledge that I was back where I belonged.

Where I belonged. The thought sent a tremor through me. When had I started thinking of Lucas's arms, Lucas's bed, Lucas's life as where I belonged?

"Coffee?" he offered, gesturing toward the door. "I just brewed some."

"Please." I tightened the robe around me, suddenly conscious of my nakedness beneath the soft terry cloth.

Last night, I'd been stripped bare in more ways than one. This morning, I needed whatever armor I could find.

We moved to the kitchen in silence, the space between us charged with unspoken questions. He poured coffee into matching mugs, sliding one across the counter toward me.

"How is your father?" I asked, needing neutral ground to start.

"Recovering well. He'll be discharged tomorrow." Lucas leaned against the counter, studying me over the rim of his mug. "He asked about you."

That surprised me.

"Me? Why would he?—"

"His nurse mentioned his ‘female visitor.’ Asked who you were to me." His gaze remained steady, revealing nothing.

"I told him you were a business associate who'd kindly driven me from the airport."

Another lie in our growing collection. The irony wasn't lost on me.

"What did he say to that?"

"He said I was a fool." A ghost of a smile touched Lucas's lips.

"My father has always been perceptive."

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, anchoring myself against the sudden vertigo of this conversation.

"What happens now, Lucas? Between us?"

"That depends."

He set his coffee down, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps.

"On what you want. On what you're willing to risk. On whether you can be honest—with me and with yourself."

Something in his measured tone, in the clinical assessment of our situation, cracked something inside me that I'd been desperately trying to hold together.

"I don't know what I want anymore," I whispered, tears gathering despite my best efforts to contain them.

"I know what I should want. I know what makes sense. But then there's you, and nothing makes sense when I'm with you."

His expression softened slightly. "Explain."

"I'm scared of you," I admitted, the words tearing from me with unexpected force. "Not physically. Never that. I'm scared of what you make me feel. What you make me want. How easily I keep surrendering control when that's the one thing I swore I'd never do again."

He didn't touch me, didn't offer comfort, just gave me space to continue—the silence itself a form of recognition I hadn't realized I needed.

"This pattern—it's not new for me." I set down my mug, hands trembling too much to trust my grip. "I've always been drawn to power. To men who make me feel small, make me work for validation, make me prove my worth again and again."

Understanding dawned in his eyes.

"Like Miles."

"Yes." I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears.

"God, yes. That's what attracted me to him initially. The Turner confidence. The casual arrogance. The sense that I'd have to fight to be seen as more than an accessory."

I moved to the window, needing distance, needing perspective. The city spread below us, people moving through their ordinary lives while mine spun increasingly out of control.

"I recognized it with him, eventually," I continued. "In therapy after we broke up. The pattern from my childhood—a father whose attention I could never quite earn, a mother who taught me love was conditional on performance. I swore I wouldn't repeat it."

"And then you met me." His voice was quiet, neutral, revealing nothing of what this revelation might mean to him.

"And then I met you." I turned back to face him, needing him to see the truth in my eyes. "The same pattern but different. Magnified. More intense. More dangerous."

"Dangerous," he repeated, testing the word.

"Is that how you see me, Savannah? As a danger to you?"

"No," I whispered.

"That's the problem. I see you as necessary. As inevitable." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the penthouse. "I'm the danger. To myself. To the life I've tried to build."

He moved closer then, not touching me but near enough that I could feel the heat of his body, catch the familiar scent of cedar and bergamot that had become synonymous with desire in my mind.

"What life have you built, exactly?" he asked, the question gentler than I expected. "A successful career, yes. A beautiful apartment. Financial independence. But have you built connection? Joy? The freedom to be fully yourself without filters or facades?"

The precision of his assessment felt like a physical blow. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" His eyes held mine, unflinching in their directness. "You speak of self-destructive patterns as if our connection is merely another example. As if what exists between us is nothing more than trauma repeating itself."

"Isn't it?" I echoed his question, voice breaking.

"Look at us, Lucas. The secrets. The lies. The intensity that borders on obsession. How is this healthy? How is this not just another version of me seeking validation from a man who holds all the power?"

Something flickered in his expression—hurt, perhaps, or disappointment.

"Is that all I am to you? A power figure to rebel against? A father substitute to finally win approval from?"

"No!" The denial burst from me with surprising force.

"God, no. That's what terrifies me. You're so much more. You see parts of me I've kept hidden from everyone. You challenge me not to diminish myself but to recognize my own strength. You make me feel..."

"Feel what?" he prompted when I fell silent.

"Seen," I whispered. "For the first time in my life, truly seen."

He closed the remaining distance between us, one hand rising to cup my cheek. The touch was gentle, reverent almost, a stark contrast to the possessive claiming of the night before.

"And is that so terrible?" he asked.

"To be seen by someone who values what they discover?"

Tears spilled over then, tracing hot paths down my cheeks.

"It is when I don't know if I can trust it. When I don't know if what's between us is real or just another self-destructive impulse I'll regret when it inevitably falls apart."

His thumb caught a tear, brushing it away with unexpected tenderness.

"Do you want to know what I think?"

I nodded, unable to form words past the tightness in my throat.

"I think you're using this pattern, this psychological framework, as a shield," he said carefully.

"A way to explain away what's happening between us as something familiar, something you can categorize and therefore control."

I started to protest, but he continued, his voice soft but unwavering.

"Because the alternative is terrifying. That this isn't a pattern at all. That it's something new, something unprecedented in both our lives. Something neither of us was looking for but both recognize as essential now that we've found it."

His words hit with devastating accuracy, targeting the fear I'd been circling but unable to name.

The fear that what I felt for Lucas Turner wasn't a trauma response or a self-destructive pattern, but something real. Something that could destroy me completely if lost.

"I'm falling in love with you," I admitted, the words escaping before I could contain them.

"And it terrifies me because I don't know if you're capable of loving me back. Not just wanting me, not just finding me interesting or challenging or a pleasant diversion. But truly loving me, with all the vulnerability and risk that entails."

The admission hung between us, charged with all its implications.

I'd laid myself bare, offered the one truth I couldn't take back or qualify or explain away with psychological jargon.

Lucas went completely still, his expression unreadable. For one horrible moment, I thought he would pull away, would retreat behind the perfect control that defined him. Would prove my fears were justified.

Instead, he pressed his forehead against mine, a gesture of such unexpected intimacy it stole my breath.

"I don't know if I'm capable of what you're asking," he admitted, the confession clearly costing him. "I've spent decades building walls, creating systems, establishing control. Sound familiar?"

A small laugh escaped me despite the tears. "Maybe we're more alike than different."

"Maybe." His hands framed my face, holding me as if I were something precious rather than convenient.

"But I do know this, Savannah. Whatever exists between us... I've never felt it before. With anyone. And I find myself increasingly unwilling to walk away from it, despite the risks. Despite the complications. Despite the very real possibility that we might destroy each other in the process."

It wasn't a declaration of love. But from Lucas Turner—controlled, guarded, emotionally reserved Lucas Turner—it was possibly more significant.

An acknowledgment of vulnerability. Of uncertainty. Of willingness to step into uncharted territory without guaranteed outcomes.

I covered his hands with mine, a decision crystallizing inside me. Not driven by impulse or desire or self-destructive patterns, but by clear-eyed recognition of a choice I needed to make.

"I need space," I said softly, feeling him tense against me.

"Not to run away. Not to end this. But to make sure the choice I'm making is truly mine, not dictated by patterns I haven't fully broken."

He studied my face, searching for deception perhaps, or uncertainty. "How much space?"

"A week," I said, the timeframe emerging with surprising clarity.

"One week where we don't see each other. Don't sleep together. Don't get lost in this intensity that makes clear thinking impossible."

"And after this week?" The question was careful, measured, revealing nothing of what he hoped the answer might be.

"After this week, I come back to you," I said simply.

"Not as someone running from her past or repeating destructive patterns. But as a woman making a conscious choice, with full awareness of the risks and complications."

Relief flickered briefly in his eyes before he masked it. "And if during this week, you decide those risks are too great?"

"Then I tell you that directly," I promised. "No lies. No evasions. No elaborate fictions to spare feelings or avoid difficult conversations."

He nodded slowly, reluctantly releasing me. The loss of his touch felt like a physical ache spreading beneath my skin, but I held my ground.

This wasn't about what my body wanted—it had made that abundantly clear last night.

This was about what my mind needed. What my heart needed. The clarity that could only come from temporary distance.

"One week," he agreed finally. "Though I warn you, little fox, it will seem an eternity."

The endearment made something flutter in my chest—hope or fear, I couldn't distinguish between them anymore. "For me too," I admitted. "But necessary."

I moved away then, gathering my things, dressing with deliberate care. Each action a small assertion of independence, of autonomy, of the woman I'd worked so hard to become after extracting myself from relationships that diminished rather than enhanced me.

At the door, I turned back to find him watching me, his expression a complex blend of reluctance and respect. Of desire and restraint. Of a man fighting his own instincts to give someone else what they needed rather than what he wanted.

"One week," I repeated softly. "And then a choice. A real one, made with open eyes."

He didn't try to touch me, didn't try to sway me with the connection that hummed between us even now. Just nodded once, accepting the boundary I'd established with the grace of a man who recognized its necessity, even as everything in him rebelled against it.

As the elevator doors closed between us, I felt something shift inside me—not the familiar spiral of self-destruction, but the steady foundation of self-respect. Of a woman choosing her path deliberately rather than being swept along by desire or fear or old, familiar patterns.

For the first time since meeting Lucas Turner, I felt like myself again.

Not diminished, not overwhelmed, not lost in his gravitational pull. But centered. Clear-eyed.

Determined to approach whatever lay between us not as a victim of my own history, but as the architect of my future.

One week to find clarity. One week to be certain. One week to make the most significant choice of my life with full awareness of its implications.

And then, if I still wanted this—wanted him—I would return. Not as a woman caught in a pattern, but as one breaking free of it.

Choosing connection not despite the risks but because they were worth taking.

For the first time in my adult life, I would walk toward something with my eyes wide open. Toward a man who might destroy me or complete me.

Toward Lucas Turner, and whatever future we might build together.