Page 60 of Inked Adonis

Sam reaches around me to latch the crate door, brushing against me as he does. The contact, slight as it is, sends electricity dancing down my spine.

But even once the lock is fastened, he doesn’t step away immediately, and neither do I. I don’t move. Can’t move.

We’ve moved beyond dangerous territory into something nuclear. One wrong move and we’ll both go up in flames.

Who am I kidding? We passed “careful” a long fucking time ago.

His breath fans against my neck, warm and intimate. “Share my bed.”

“Are you or are you not a comedian?” I ask weakly.

He doesn’t laugh. “No more crates,” he continues, still so close I can feel the rumble of his words against my back. “No more guest rooms.” His hand comes up to rest against the crate bars, caging me between cold metal and his heat. “No more making your point by sleeping with the dog.”

For a moment, I almost give in. Almost toss aside twenty-six years of hard-learned lessons about men who think they own the ground they walk on.

But that’s the thing about growing up with cops in the family. You learn early that authority doesn’t equal righteousness. That sometimes the scariest men are the ones who claim they’re protecting you.

Sam’s different. Or at least, I want him to be. But I’ve watched him these past days, seen how naturally command sits on his shoulders. How easily control comes to him.

And that’s exactly why I can’t just give in.

Because I’ve spent my whole life building something that’s mine. A life where I choose who to trust, who to help, who to let close. Where broken animals and scared old ladies know they can count on me to show up. To be there. To be real.

If I let Sam pull me into his bed without conditions, without proving he sees me as more than a convenient warm body or potential security threat, I’ll lose that. Lose myself.

So I spin to face him, heart thundering but spine straight. His heat and size overwhelm me, but I’ve faced down aggressive German Shepherds and my father’s rage. I can handle Samuil Litvinov’s intensity.

“I’ll share your bed if you treat me like a woman—an equal—not a hostage in whatever fucked-up game we’re playing.”

His expression darkens, jaw clenching. “This isn’t a game.” He steps closer, towering over me until his shadow swallows me whole. “None of this has been a game.”

“You’re right,” I say, refusing to back down even as his cologne wreaks havoc on my senses. “This is my life. And if you want to share it, you need to prove you understand what that means.”

I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart slam against my hand like it’s trying to break free. Most people would mistake that rhythm for anger, but I’m starting to read the sheet music of Samuil Litvinov’s body language.

This is something else entirely.

“Tomorrow morning, I want to have breakfast with my grandmother and stop at my office.” I tilt my head back to meet those storm-cloud eyes. “Come with me. Show me you respect who I am outside these walls.”

I hold my breath, watching his face as he studies mine. I expect resistance. Expect him to remind me that I’m still technically his prisoner until his team clears me. Expect some cutting remark about how Chicago’s most powerful CEO doesn’t do breakfast with little old ladies.

Instead, he surprises me.

“Done,” he says simply.

The word hangs between us, heavy with possibility. I search his face for signs of mockery or manipulation, but find none. Just that intensity that makes me feel like I’m the only person in his world.

It’s dangerous, this feeling. More dangerous than any of his threats or commands. Because for a moment—just a moment—I actually believe him. Believe that he sees me as something more than a potential security threat or a convenient bedmate.

The laugh bubbles up before I can stop it.

“If I’d known it was this easy to negotiate with you?—”

“Don’t.”

His hand catches my chin, and the world narrows to that point of contact. Firm but not harsh—everything Sam isn’t supposed to be.

“Don’t mistake my agreement for weakness.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and my breath hitches. “I want to know your world, Nova.”

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