Page 36 of Silence and Surrender

We worked for another hour, documenting connections between shell companies and shipping routes. Every so often our hands would brush as we reached for the same paper, or our shoulders would touch as we leaned over documents together. Each contact felt charged with dangerous possibilities.

Finally, my eyes started burning from staring at financial records. I stretched, trying to work out the knots that came from hunching over laptops and ledgers.

“Here.” Colton’s hands settled on my shoulders, strong fingers finding tension points with surprising skill. “You’re too tense.”

I let my head fall forward as he worked out knots I hadn’t even known I had.

“Better?” His voice barely disturbed the room’s stillness.

“Mmm.” I couldn’t manage actual words as his thumbs found a particularly tight spot at the base of my neck.

“We should pack up for the night,” Colton said finally, his voice hoarse. He rose from his chair, gathering papers with mechanical precision that betrayed his distraction. “I’ll walk you out.”

The short journey to his private elevator felt endless, charged with unspoken words and lingering glances. His hand at the small of my back sent shivers down my spine as he guided me forward. The elegant hallway seemed to narrow, the air growing thicker with each step.

Then we were at the elevator, its polished doors reflecting our tense expressions in warped chrome.

The elevator doors had almost closed when his hand shot out to stop them.

A huge shudder of relief went through me.

“Wait.” His voice was rougher than usual. “You should eat something before you go. Have you had a real meal since our dinner out?”

I opened my mouth to protest, then realized I couldn’t actually remember. He must have read the answer on my face because his expression softened.

“I have leftovers from that Italian place you like. The one near Christie’s.”

It was such a small detail for him to remember, a casual comment I’d made weeks ago about their gnocchi. But he’d noticed. Had remembered.

“Fine,” I conceded, stepping back into his penthouse, trying to still my heart’s rapid beats. “But only because it’s Giacomo’s.”

His kitchen was like the rest of his home—clean, modern lines and luxury. But there were unexpected touches of personality: a child’s drawing, signed Clara, pinned to the refrigerator; a collection of coffee mugs that looked handmade; a leftover holiday card from his brother and his family still pinned on his fridge. Signs that underneath his exterior, Colton Moreau was more than who he appeared to be.

He moved through his space with easy grace, pulling containers from the refrigerator while I settled at the marble island. The domesticity of the moment struck me—how natural it felt to be here with him, sharing late-night meals and dangerous secrets.

“You’ve changed,” I said without meaning to.

He sighed and glanced up from plating pasta. “The training? I’ve noticed the way people, women in particular, look at me now—”

“Not just physically.” Though god, those changes were impossible to ignore, especially now as he reached for fresh wine glasses on a high shelf. “You’re different here. More...”

“Human?” His smile held a touch of self-deprecation.

“Real,” I decided. “Like you’ve let your guard down.”

He was quiet for a moment, opening another bottle of wine with ease. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful. “Everything changed when you walked into my office and started questioning everything I thought I knew.”

The admission hung between us as he slid a plate toward me. The pasta smelled amazing, but I found myself watching him instead of eating. The way he’d rolled his sleeves higher to cook. How his forearms flexed as he poured wine. The new confidence in his movements had nothing to do with physical training.

“Eat,” he commanded softly. “Before it gets cold again.”

I took a bite, closing my eyes at the familiar flavors. When I opened them, he was watching me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“You make these little sounds when you enjoy something,” he said, voice low. “Like you can’t quite contain your pleasure.”

Heat crept up my neck. “I do not.”

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