Page 94 of Ruthless Arrangement

“She’s not mine,” I reply.

His smile is knowing. “Keep telling yourself that.” He departs, leaving the words hanging in the air.

When Lea emerges from the bathroom, dressed in fresh clothes, I’m struggling with the buttons of my shirt, my injured shoulder protesting. Without a word, she crosses to me, her fingers moving efficiently. The simple intimacy, Lea standing between my knees, tending to me, stirs something deeper than desire, a startling flicker of need.

“Thank you,” I say when she finishes.

She steps back, perceptive eyes searching mine. “What did Alessandro say?”

“His men are probing the perimeter.” I stand carefully, moving to the window. “We need to determine our next move.”

“Our?” she asks, the word significant.

I turn. “Yes,our. Unless you’d prefer to be excluded?”

A slow, genuine smile transforms her face. “No, I wouldn’t prefer that.”

“Good.” We make our way through the hallways, my pace slow. Lea matches her stride to mine without comment, observing everything.

“You grew up here?” she asks as we pass a portrait.

“After my parents died, yes,” I admit. “Alessandro raised me. He believed comfort bred complacency. This was a place for learning strategy.”

“Seeing people as pieces to be moved,” she mumbles.

“Yes.” I meet her gaze. “Including you, initially.”

She doesn’t flinch. “And now?”

Before I can answer, we reach the study where Alessandro waits with his team. The briefing is concise: Moretti is assessing, not attacking immediately. I keep the details minimal for Lea, but her presence beside me feels…necessary. She’s become a stabilizing force, sharp mind cutting through assumptions. This dependence disturbs me. Weakness. Yet I bring her deeper in.

As afternoon turns to evening, I suggest a walk on the grounds, needing movement, needing distance from the weight of command. We move along a gravel path toward the lake. The setting sun casts long shadows. Lea walks beside me, close, respectful of my injuries.

“Why did you really bring me into the briefing?” she asks when we’re alone. “Not because I ‘earned it’.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. “Perceptive.”

“What’s the truth, Nico?”

What is the truth? About us? “I wanted to see what you’d do,” I admit. “Whether you’d use the information, or…”

“Or treat it as confidential because it came from you,” she finishes. “A test.”

“Yes.”

She considers this. “Did I pass?”

“Which matters more to you now?” I ask, sitting on the bench by the lake.

She sits beside me. “A few weeks ago, my article. Now…” She looks across the water. “I’m not sure who I am anymore, Nico.”

As darkness falls, the temperature drops. Without thinking, I slip my arm around her shoulders, drawing her against my uninjured side. She comes willingly, fitting against me.

“We should head back,” I say, reluctant to end this.

She nods but turns her face up to mine. Her eyes are dark pools in the fading light. I lower my mouth to hers, the kiss gentle at first, then deepening. By the time we break apart, we’re both breathing harder.

“Yes,” she says, rising and offering me her hand. “We should head back.”

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