Page 31 of Savage Union
"I am not changing in front of you."
"Then don't change at all." I don't lower the nightgown. "But understand the consequences of that choice."
Something shifts in her expression—not surrender, but a tactical retreat. She snatches the nightgown from my hand.
"You're a bastard."
"So I've been told." I turn and walk to my closet, giving her the privacy she demands, though not because she demanded it. Because it suits me to do so. She needs to understand the difference.
I take my time selecting what I'll wear, listening to the soft sounds of fabric rustling, the muted thud of dropped towels. When I emerge, she's wearing the nightgown, arms crossed over her chest as if to hide how the silk clings to her curves. The effect is the opposite of what she intends—the defensive posture only emphasizes her vulnerability, her femininity.
"Get in bed," I instruct, moving toward the bathroom.
"I'll sleep on the floor."
I pause, looking back at her with a raised eyebrow. "Will you?"
"Yes." Her chin lifts in that now-familiar gesture of defiance.
"Then you will be uncomfortable, and I will sleep well. Your choice, as always." I close the bathroom door behind me, cutting off whatever retort she was preparing.
The shower helps clear my head, washing away the unexpected heat that seeing her in that nightgown generated. Control. Distance. These are the principles that have guided me for years. Caterina Gallo will not change that, no matter how she looks standing barefoot in my bedroom, wrapped in silk I provided.
I dry off efficiently, pulling on the black silk boxers I sleep in. No need to dress differently than usual—this is my domain, my routine. She's the intruder here, not me.
When I emerge, the bedroom is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp on my side. Caterina stands by the window, looking out at the city below, her silhouette outlined by the nighttime skyline. She doesn't turn at my approach.
"It's late," I say. "Come to bed."
"I told you, I'm sleeping on the floor."
"And I'm telling you to get in the bed." I move to my side and pull back the covers. "Now."
She turns, arms still crossed. "Or what? You'll bend me over your desk again?"
The memory sends an unexpected surge of heat through me. "Don't tempt me."
Something flashes in her eyes—fear? Interest? Both? She looks away quickly. "I won't sleep beside you."
"Yes, you will." I keep my voice level, reasonable. "Because the alternative is spending another day alone in that room, without books, without television, without any contact whatsoever."
"You can't break me."
"I'm not trying to break you." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "I'm trying to teach you where the boundaries are."
She scoffs. "And sharing your bed is a 'boundary'?"
"Get in the bed, Caterina." My patience wears thin. "It's nearly midnight."
"No."
The defiance is becoming tiresome. Time for a different approach. I walk around to her side of the bed, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps. She holds her ground, though I see the subtle tensing of her body as I approach.
"Last chance," I warn.
"Or what?" she challenges.
I move quickly, backing her against the window. Her eyes widen, but she doesn't cry out or try to escape. Brave, even when cornered.
