Sentinel for the Untouched

POV Noelle

This is either the best or worst decision I’ve ever made.

I’m staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and honestly? I look like trouble wrapped in designer labels.

The dress is criminally short, the neckline plunges to somewhere around my naval, and if I bend over, I’m showing the entire world everything God gave me.

Dad would fucking hate this outfit.

Which is exactly the point.

See, Daddy dearest has been MIA for six weeks now. Singapore, then London, then some oil conference in Dubai that was apparently more important than his daughter’s existence.

The man who used to read me bedtime stories and teach me how to ride bikes now communicates through wire transfers and his assistant’s carefully worded emails.

‘Miss Morris, your father sends his regards and hopes you’re doing well in your studies.’

Yeah, well. His regards can go fuck themselves.

I’ve been the perfect daughter for twenty-two years.

Perfect grades, perfect behavior, perfect little princess locked away in her ivory tower. And what do I get? Radio silence and a black card with no limit.

So tonight? Tonight I’m going all out and that includes finally losing my stupid virginity to my boyfriend.

The vodka burns warm and familiar as I navigate through the packed house. Bodies pressed together like sardines, music thumping so loud I can feel it in my bones. This isn’t my scene—I’m more of a curl-up-with-a-book-and-expensive-wine kind of girl.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Noelle! Get your perfect ass over here!”

Jamie’s voice cuts through the chaos like a blade through butter.

My best friend stands near the kitchen island, looking effortlessly stunning in his fitted black shirt and designer jeans that cost him one evening of shouting with his mother about trashing out money.

He’s got that rare combination of devastating good looks and the confidence to use them on anyone who catches his eye.

“You look like you’re about to make catastrophically bad decisions,” he says, pulling me into a hug that smells like expensive cologne and safety.

“That’s literally the plan.” I steal his drink and take a sip. Whiskey. Of course. “Speaking of bad decisions, see anyone interesting?”

His eyes light up with that mischievous spark that usually means trouble. “Oh, honey. There’s this man by the fireplace who just obliterated my entire sense of self-worth.”

I follow his gaze to a figure in all black, standing apart from the crowd like he’s carved from shadows and bad intentions.

Much older than the college crowd—probably late thirties. Dark hair, sharp jaw, and an aura that screams ‘I could end your entire existence without breaking a sweat.’

“Did you try the full Jamie-charm offensive?”

“I tried everything short of actual nudity. He looked at me like I was a mildly interesting houseplant.” Jamie sighs dramatically. “I’m deeply attracted to his please-harder-Daddy vibes and complete indifference to my existence. It’s problematic.”

I laugh, but it dies in my throat when familiar hands slide around my waist from behind.

“There’s my girl.”

Warren’s voice is honey-smooth against my ear, but his grip feels possessive. Claiming. Like I’m already his property, which, let’s be honest, I probably am.

Warren was my boyfriend for three months now, ever since he noticed me crying in the library after Dad missed another one of my award ceremonies.

He swooped in with his perfect smile and his daddy’s money, offering comfort and validation I was too desperate to question.

“Miss me?” I tilt my head back against his shoulder, playing the part I’ve perfected over months of this toxic dance.

“Always.” His fingers trace patterns on my hip that feel more like ownership than affection. “I have a surprise for you upstairs, babygirl.”

The thing about Warren is that he’s perfect on paper.

Rich family, law school bound, abs that could cut glass. But there’s something cold behind his smile, something that makes my skin crawl even as I lean into his embrace because I’m apparently allergic to self-preservation.

He fills the void Dad left behind, gives me the attention I crave, makes me feel wanted in a way that’s probably unhealthy but addictive as hell.

Every red flag looks pink through rose-colored glasses, right?

Jamie’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He mouths “Are you sure?” and I nod, even though my stomach does a weird flip that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

Warren’s hand is firm on my lower back as he guides me through the crowd, his fingers spread like he owns me. The music throbs beneath our feet, drowning out every rational thought screaming at me to run.

We climb the stairs, leaving behind the packed living room and half-dressed strangers grinding against walls. Up here, the air is quieter. Thicker.

He opens a door to what looks like someone’s bedroom. Bed unmade, a hoodie slung over the desk chair, someone’s cologne still lingering in the air. But something’s wrong. Immediately.

The room isn’t empty.

Marcus and Tyler from Warren’s usual crew sit on the bed and window ledge like they’ve been waiting. My designer heels stutter on the threshold.

“Warren?” I say, voice smaller than intended. “What’s going on?”

The door clicks shut behind me. Heavy. Mechanical. The lock slides into place like the closing of a coffin lid, and my breath catches.

“Relax, Noelle.” Warren’s voice has shifted—gone is the silk, replaced by sandpaper. “You’ve been teasing all of us for months. Time to stop pretending you don’t like the attention.”

My pulse spikes. There’s a laptop open on the desk, its camera lens pointed squarely at the bed.

And that’s when it hits me.

The drink. The one he insisted on getting me. The one I took only a few sips from before we came upstairs.

“You’ve been begging for this in that little dress of yours,” Warren continues, eyes raking over me like I’m a buffet meant to be shared. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

I step back, but Marcus moves in, casually blocking the door. Tyler stands too, arms folded, gaze flat and unreadable.