Page 137 of The Rules
"...but I’m feeling generous."
Katherine stiffened. Heat flared behind her ribs. He wasn’t just enforcing their arrangement—he was savoring it. Cataloguing her failures like he was building a case. One he’d enjoy presenting.
"You’re keeping score?" she asked, disbelieving.
Ben tilted his head, studying her like a specimen under glass, the corner of his mouth twitching with a barely restrained smirk. That look—amused, intrigued—sent a low pulse through her, sharp and unwelcome. His next words unfurled like silk-wrapped barbs, smooth on the surface, but designed to draw blood.
"Would you prefer I handle it now?"
Katherine blinked. Her breath caught, lungs suddenly tight. Fury twisted low in her gut, tangled with something darker—something shamefully alive. His voice wasn’t just a threat.
It was a dare. A pull. Heat unfurled inside her, immediate and traitorous.
And she felt it.
Worse—she knew he saw it.
Still, she held steady.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
She bit back the retort forming behind her teeth, swallowed the burn rising in her throat. Because silence, sharp and deliberate, was all she had left. And in that moment, she made it her weapon.
Ben leaned back slightly in his chair, one brow lifting as his voice dropped low—mocking, coaxing, just a hint of mischief curled around the words. “Say thank you, Winters.”
The words landed like a slap.
Her pulse spiked, cheeks heating with rage and something far more dangerous. Two syllables. That’s all he wanted. Gratitude. Obedience. And yet—it felt like surrendering a piece of herself she wasn’t ready to give.
She didn’t speak.
Not out of defiance, not out of pride—but because saying it wouldmeansomething. Something he would use. So she stared at him instead, her expression carved from ice, her silence louder than any scream.
Ben held her gaze, unreadable.
Then, without ceremony, he slid a file across the desk.
Katherine reached for it immediately—eager to escape,
to regroup, to breathe somewhere he wasn’t.
Her fingers closed around the edge—and brushed his.
The contact was brief. Barely there. But deliberate.
Not an accident.
And suddenly she knew.
He’d used the wrong hand.
He'd reached across himself with his left, just so their right hands would meet. Just so their fingers would touch.
Just so he could feel her react.
Her heart kicked hard in her chest. A flush crept up the back of her neck. It wasn’t just the touch—it was the calculation behind it. The precision. The subtle, maddeninggame.
Her eyes snapped up to his, a sharp, silent accusation flickering behind her lashes.
