Page 56 of His Ruthless Claim

The clinical way he says it - like reading from a manual on human interaction - makes my chest ache. I watch him retreat behind that wall of cold logic, the brief flash of desperation buried beneath practiced control.

"Luca." I step closer, ignoring how he tenses. "Safety isn't just about avoiding physical harm. Trust matters. Choices matter. You took both from me."

His jaw works, that aristocratic profile sharp with frustration. "I calculated every variable. Ensured no lasting damage would occur. The outcome was optimal-"

"Stop." I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart race beneath the expensive fabric. "Stop treating this like a math equation. I'm not a problem to solve."

"Then explain." The words grind out between clenched teeth. "Tell me what I should have done differently when you were being so-" He cuts himself off, fingers white-knuckled on that watch. "So stubborn about accepting protection."

The raw plea in his voice breaks something in me. This brilliant, broken man who can orchestrate complex schemes but can't grasp why betrayal hurts worse than bruises. Who thinks love is a tactical advantage and trust is a weakness to exploit.

"You should have talked to me." My fingers curl into his shirt. "Should have given me the choice instead of manipulating me into what you wanted. Protection without consent isn't protection - it's control."

He goes very still under my touch, those empty eyes widening just a fraction. For the first time, I see past the calculated exterior to the scared eight-year-old boy who learned that control was the only way to survive.

But I can't live like that.

"I need time." The words scrape my throat as I step back from him. "And I need you to not force this. To let me choose."

His fingers twitch toward me before curling into fists at his sides. That perfect composure slips again, revealing something raw underneath. "Skye-"

"No." I hold up my hand. "You don't get to calculate your way out of this one."

I turn and walk out before he can respond, my heels clicking against marble in a staccato rhythm that matches my racing pulse. The drive back to my apartment feels longer than usual, my mind replaying the tremor in his usually steady hands. I avoid Mickey's eyes in the mirror.

The familiar sight of my boutique's facade does little to settle my nerves. I don't say a word as I slip out of the car, slamming the door as Mickey says my name and rushing to my apartment. The space feels different now - smaller, less like home and more like a statement of defiance.

Movement catches my eye through the bay window. Of course they're still there. Mickey and Ace patrol the street below, their stances alert despite the casual way they seem to be chatting.

My fingers hover over my own phone. I could call them off, tell them to leave. But the words Luca spoke earlier echo in my head -you have no idea what's out there. The raw desperation in his voice when he said it...

I let my hand drop. Let them stay. Not because Luca wants it, but because right now, it's my choice to make.

The irony isn't lost on me as I sink onto my velvet couch, tucking my legs under me. I'm choosing the very protection I'm angry at him for forcing on me. But maybe that's the whole point - it hits different when it's my decision.

27

LUCA

Ipace my office, each step matching the steady tick of the watch face. Twenty-seven hours. Sixteen minutes. Forty-two seconds since Skye walked out.

My fingers trace the silver band for the hundredth time today. The metal's grown warm against my skin, but the comfort it usually brings eludes me. Instead, the watch mocks me with each passing second.

"Boss." Bas appears in my doorway. "She's still not answering?"

The crystal decanter shatters against the wall. I don't remember throwing it.

"Get out."

He hesitates. "You haven't slept-"

"I said get the fuck out."

The door clicks shut. I drag my hands through my hair, ruining its usual precise styling. The reflection in my office window shows a stranger - someone unraveled, dangerous. My ice-blue eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep.

The bed still smells like her. I checked this morning, standing in my room like a fucking idiot, breathing in the lingeringtraces of her perfume. Now the scent haunts me, along with the memory of her amber eyes when she discovered what I'd done. The hurt. The betrayal.

I check the watch again. Twenty-seven hours. Seventeen minutes. Twelve seconds.

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