Page 26 of His Ruthless Vow

I set my glass down, smooth the invisible wrinkles from my lounge pants, and drag my fingers through my curls. Not to look good for him—absolutely not—but because I refuse to appear disheveled before a man who probably sleeps in tailored pajamas.

The second knock doesn't come. That makes it worse somehow. He's just waiting, knowing I'm inside, knowing I've made the calculation and realized there's no escape.

I cross to the door, my bare feet silent against the hardwood. Through the peephole, I catch the distorted image of him—tall, imposing even through curved glass. I draw a steadying breath and swing the door open.

When I open the door, Enzo's leaning against the frame, arms crossed, eyes cool and unreadable. The soft light from my hallway catches the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows that make him look like something carved rather than born. His steel-gray eyes flick over me once, taking in my casual clothes with clinical detachment.

But there's something in his posture—a stillness that sets my nerves on edge. The kind of quiet that precedes something dangerous. His dark hair is slightly mussed, as though he's been running his hands through it, the only indication that something might be off.

"Two hours," he says, voice low. "Two hours I've been trying to reach you."

His voice is calm, but it carries a quiet warning. "You're in a deal with me. You don't get to ignore me."

I step back, pulse hammering, but I keep my chin high. The confidence I project in boardrooms doesn't abandon me here, even as my heart threatens to break through my ribcage.

"I didn't realize I signed away my right to personal space." The words come out steady, thank god. "Was there a footnote in our verbal contract?"

Enzo follows me inside, slow and deliberate, shutting the door behind him with an unnerving sense of finality. The sound of the latch clicking into place feels significant somehow, like the period at the end of a threat.

"Not personal space," he says, his eyes never leaving mine as he advances a step closer. "Just me."

The air seems to thin between us. I don't answer, can't answer. Something about him tonight feels different—there's a tightly coiled energy humming beneath his controlled exterior. His jaw is set harder, the lines around his eyes deeper. Despite myself, I catalog these changes, these microscopic shifts in his demeanor that most would miss.

Before I can retreat, he's moving forward with predatory intent, backing me against the wall. My spine hits the cool surface as his hands slam down on either side of my head, boxing me in completely. He doesn't touch me—doesn't need to. The cage of his arms is enough to trap not just my body but my breath.

The heat radiating from him is overwhelming, like standing too close to an open flame. His scent engulfs me—that expensive cologne I'd noticed before, but underneath it something raw and masculine that makes my stomach tighten. I inhale involuntarily, and immediately regret it. The scent of him floods my senses, clouding my thoughts, making it harder to remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

"You're testing me," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear. His breath skates over my cheek, warm and intoxicating. "You say you don't want me, but you can't help seeing how far you can push me."

My back is pressed so hard against the wall I swear I can feel the texture of the paint through my thin shirt. I lift my chin, refusing to shrink under his intensity. His steel-gray eyes burn into mine, searching for weakness, for the crack in my armor he can exploit.

"You don't know what I want," I manage, but my voice betrays me, coming out husky instead of defiant.

He leans closer, the space between us narrowing to nothing. His body hovers a breath away from mine, not touching but promising. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he's going to kiss me—his eyes drop to my lips, lingering there with such focused attention that I can almost feel the phantom pressure of his mouth.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he shifts, bringing his face alongside mine, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. "You're waiting for me to touch you, aren't you?" he whispers, each word a caress against my skin.

A shudder runs through me that I can't hide—not with him this close, not with every nerve ending in my body suddenly, traitorously alive. My fingers curl into fists at my sides to keep from reaching for him.

"Not even a little," I breathe, the lie bitter on my tongue.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and the smirk that curves his mouth is pure satisfaction—he knows. His eyes gleam with victory as he steps away, leaving cold air rushing into the space where his heat had been.

"Liar," he says, the word somehow both accusation and praise.

Then, without another word, he turns and walks toward my door, each step deliberate and unhurried. The bastard doesn't even look back.

The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds like laughter.

I stay frozen against the wall for several seconds, my chest heaving, fury and frustration pulsing through my veins like poison. My skin feels too tight, too hot, too sensitive. I want to scream, to throw something, to chase after him and—what? Slap him? Kiss him? Both?

The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water: this is exactly what he wanted. He's playing me, trying to make me want him, to make me give in. The worst part is that it's working. My body is humming with a need I haven't felt in years, maybe ever.

But two can play this game. If he thinks I'm going to break first, he's underestimated me. Maybe I can use him for pleasure without letting him use me. Maybe I can beat him at his own game.

I push away from the wall on unsteady legs, already plotting my counterattack, even as I know I'm walking straight into dangerous territory. I need some control and there's only one way for me to get it.

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