Page 85 of The Pucking Arrangement

The silence is too much. Thick. Weighted. Crackling.

My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the quiet hum of the engine. I steal a glance at him—at the sharp angle of his jaw, clenched tight. At the dark eyes fixed straight ahead, seeing everything and nothing all at once.

Then, without a word, he gets out.

His movements are silent. But there’s a restrained force in every step that makes my breath catch.

He opens the back door, extracting Ris with infinite care. She’s completely limp, her blonde curls spilling over his shoulder, tiny hands grabbing the fabric of his shirt. He turns, his eyes finding mine over the roof of the car. His voice is low. A command wrapped in a warning.

“Don’t you dare try to run.”

I swallow hard, skin prickling, my nipples peaking against the thin silk of my dress.

“Be a good girl,” he murmurs, “and wait for me.”

* * *

I don’t remember walking inside.

I don’t remember anything except the way his voice felt curling around my spine, the way my whole body thrummed in response.

The house feels different. Charged. Every shadow is deeper, every breath louder, the anticipation pressing against my ribs like a second heartbeat.

My heels click against the hardwood, sharp in the silence. I sink onto the couch, fingers tracing the smooth fabric, grounding myself.

Breathe, Erin.

But my heart won’t slow. My mind won’t settle. Because I know what’s coming.

I want it.

And I’m terrified.

My reflection stares back at me from the dark window—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted.

I look different.

Reckless.

Wrecked before he’s even touched me.

Then, footsteps on the stairs.

My gaze snaps up.

Dmitri is descending. His jacket is gone. Tie loose. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the broad, solid plane of his chest. His movements are slow. A lion stalking closer, one step at a time, eyes never leaving mine.

He lifts his hand. The tie slides free from his fingers, draped over the banister.

I swallow hard.

“You’re still here,” he says lazily, voice rough, low, curling around my spine.

I nod, mouth dry. “You told me to wait.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. Barely.

“You’re scared,” he murmurs, taking another step.

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