His gift

The Gift

The morning started like any other.

Or at least Aroha tried to pretend it did.

She stepped out of the shower, fresh-faced, dressed in a white blouse and denim skirt—keeping it light, simple.

Hair in a soft ponytail, earrings small.

Anything to feel like the normal college girl she used to be.

She glanced at the mirror.

The only thing that didn’t belong in her image of innocence…

was the ring.

Silver and cold. Encrusted with diamonds.

It clung to her finger like a silent reminder:

You’re not free anymore, little kitten.

---

She walked into campus slow, head held high—but her heart thudded with every step.

People noticed.

Of course they did.

Whispers danced around her:

“She’s engaged?”

“Did you see the ring?”

“To who?”

“She never even dated…”

No one knew.

No one dared to ask.

Because even though Aroha looked delicate and sweet…

there was something now in her eyes.

A shadow. A secret. A warning.

---

By afternoon, she was home again.

College bag dropped. Sandals off.

She greeted her parents in the dining room.

“Day went well?” Miranda her mom asked, placing a fresh roti on her plate.

Aroha smiled politely. “It was… quiet.”

Daniel her dad looked up from his phone. “That’s good. Keep it that way. This engagement has brought enough attention already.”

Aroha nodded. Ate slowly.

Laughed lightly when her mom asked about professors.

Acted like everything was normal.

But the moment she stepped into her room—

Everything shattered.

There, on her bed, sat a deep black velvet box.

Clean. Expensive. Untouched.

On top of it—

a white card, written in sharp, masculine handwriting.

> For my kitten~

—Z

Her breath caught.

She looked around, as if someone might jump out.

But it was just her.

And him, somehow, without being there.

She opened the box.

Her heart stopped.

Inside—

Two sets of delicate, sinful lingerie.

One in deep crimson silk.

One in pure black lace, nearly transparent.

Fine gold clasps. Subtle embroidery. Custom-fitted.

Tucked beneath the set was another note.

> Wear them when you miss my hands.

—Ryle

Her knees almost gave in.

She dropped the lid shut, backing away from the bed like it had burned her.

> “What is wrong with him…” she whispered.

“What is wrong with me...”

Because part of her wanted to scream.

Part of her wanted to cry.

And part of her?

Wanted to try them on.

.

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The Lingerie & the Mind Games

Aroha stood frozen, the velvet box still open on her bed.

The silence of her room felt louder now—pressing, intimate, wrong.

Her eyes dropped back to the note.

> Wear them when you miss my hands.

—Ryle

(— — — — — —)

She blinked at the number below the line.

Her breath caught.

He gave her his number. Just like that.

Ryle.

That nickname.

That teasing, possessive tone.

She’d never called him that… but he already made it his.

She sighed—loud and long—pressing her palms to her face.

> “What does he want from me...?”

But her eyes still drifted back to the lingerie.

The red one looked like liquid sin.

The black? Pure temptation. Nothing left to the imagination.

Her fingers hovered above the fabric, then drew back—like it might bite.

> “It hides nothing...” she whispered.

And then the thought slipped in—uninvited, unwanted… unstoppable:

Her.

Wearing the black lace.

Standing in front of him, trembling.

His eyes slow, devouring.

His voice like poison wrapped in velvet:

> “Beg.”

She shuddered, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“No,” she breathed, shaking her head fast. “No, stop thinking like that—”

But then—a knock.

She jumped.

“Aroha?” her mother’s voice called from the other side. “Mr. Zadkiel sent you a gift. I left it in your room—already opened.”

“I-I saw it. Thank you, Mama.”

She waited until her mother’s footsteps faded down the hallway.

And then?

She turned back to the box.

Heart thudding.

Pulse rising.

Hands shaking.

She folded the lace carefully.

Not to throw it away.

Just to hide it.

She opened her closet.

Slipped the sets into a silk pouch.

Buried it beneath her scarves—like it would silence what it stirred inside her.

But it didn’t.

Because when she closed the closet door, the image was still there—

Her. In lace. In his arms. Not fighting anymore.

And her breath whispered out in one word she swore she’d never say:

> “Ryle…”

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