Page 238 of The Rules
Like he'd been waiting to do it.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Katherine breathed him in, her chest rising and falling against his. The scent of him filled her lungs—something warm and spiced, like cardamom stirred into midnight air. Polished but not artificial. Expensive, yes, but grounded in something darker, richer—uniquely him. Her body responded with a subtle, involuntary shiver, nerves lighting up where they connected.
Her heartbeat slowed, yet each pulse felt stronger, more deliberate, as if her blood had thickened with the proximity of him.
Her hands stayed clenched in his shirt. She could feel the heat of his skin beneath the fine fabric, the solid wall of muscle, the slight give as her fingers pressed harder. The intimacy of it struck her—how rarely she touched anyone like this, how rarely she allowed herself to need the contact.
"It's not over," he said into her hair.
She nodded into him.
"I know."
And she did.
But for now—just for this moment—she let herself rest.
Chapter 51
Benjamin
Benjamin Sinclair doesn’t lose focus in court. He owns the space—breathes the pressure like it was built for him. This isn’t a room. It’s a stage. And he never misses his cue. Judges defer. Opponents sweat. Juries lean in like they’re waiting for scripture. Tailored wrath in a suit. Sharp mind, sharper tongue. Composed. Precise. Untouchable.
But today?
Today, Katherine Winters is dismantling that composure piece by piece.
She walks in like the courtroom owes her something—and she’s come to collect. No hesitation, no second-guessing.
Just sheer, magnetic certainty. The kind that turns silence into spectacle. The kind that makes even seasoned litigators forget what they were about to say.
His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the table as she takes her place.
Then she speaks.
Clear. Measured. Lethal.
Every word lands like a scalpel—precise, clean, impossible to ignore. Each objection, each redirect, is a calculated strike. Her delivery? Immaculate. Controlled. Devastating.
Ben’s breath hitches—just once—but it’s enough. His pulse kicks harder. His gaze doesn’t leave her.
Christ, Winters.
She’s not just commanding the room.
She owns it.
He can’t stop watching her.
It’s not just the rhythmic click of her heels—sharp, deliberate, unapologetic. It’s the way she carries herself, thegravitational pull of her presence that coils through the air like tension before a storm.
Katherine doesn’t dominate by volume or theatrics.
She doesn’t have to. Her presence alone redirects the attention of every juror, every spectator, even the judge. It settles over her like a tailored suit of power.
She doesn’t look at him—not at first. Her attention is razor-focused on the witness, the jury, the dynamics of power shifting with every breath.
