Page 6 of The Final Contract
She disappears into the bathroom. I go too.
She sets her necklace down with careful hands, avoiding my eyes in the mirror.
“Quiet?” I repeat, bracketing her against the counter with both palms flat on the marble. My reflection looms behind hers. “That’s your excuse? Quiet?”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t pull away. “He’s left a flower here and there. Three times this year. That’s it. I got rid of them before you could see.”
The words hit like a gut punch. “You’ve been covering for him.”
“I’ve been handling it.”
“No.” My voice drops lower, heavier. “You’ve been living with it. There’s a difference.”
She finally looks at me—steady, stubborn.
I have to force myself not to stare at her mouth, at the pale-pink gloss catching the light, making me wonder how soft she tastes. To keep my eyes on hers, away from the corset that shoves her tits together, the way they bounce just so when she walks—like they’re begging for my hands.
I push the anger forward so it’s all I can feel.
Anger—at her for hiding it, at Lucian for not crushing this bastard years ago, at myself for standing at her side blind while she pretended it had gone away.
Never again.
I lean in, crowding her back against the counter. “This ends now. You hear me? Not another flower. Not another text. Not another ghost at your shoulder that you hide from me.”
The bathroom goes still. My voice is low, steady, meant only for her ears. And despite the fight still simmering in her, I catch something else in her stare—something dangerous.
Because I’m here to guard her. Not to fuck her.
“You hear me?” I press, my mouth just inches from hers.
She nods once. Silent. Then her tongue flicks across her bottom lip, and it nearly fucking kills me. Thank God for the way I’m standing—hiding the hard-on straining against my trousers.
Her eyes shift, sliding past mine to the mirror. She turns slightly, hands braced on the counter beside mine, gaze locking with mine in the glass.
Christ.
This position. The swell of her breasts spilling from the corset, the faint looseness in the bodice where the dress is fighting to keep up. Her blonde hair, pinned high, a few strands falling to brush her neck, trailing over her bare shoulder like temptation itself.
I could press into her now. Let her feel what she does to me. Tear this goddamn dress off her and take what I’ve wanted for months—years, if I’m being honest.
Instead, she whispers, “Help me out of my dress?”
Quiet, but loaded.
Her brow arches, the smallest twitch, and I know she’s aware of every thought in my head.
My jaw tenses as I force myself upright, but I step closer all the same. “Just pull the string out,” she instructs.
My fingers—too big, too rough—find the delicate satin laced tight down her spine. I tug one loop free, then the next, unraveling the crisscross pattern inch by inch.
She never takes her eyes off me. I look down only when I need to. Like this is some silent standoff. Like she can use this to make me drop this whole stalker revelation.
Not a fucking chance, angel.
Near the top, the fabric slackens, and she holds it to her chest, modest in gesture but not in effect.
The string finally gone, I retreat a step. But she isn’t finished with me.
