Page 42 of The Rules
The smile that spreads across his face makes her stomach clench. It's pure predator. His "No?" comes out soft, almost gentle, but she knows better. The pause that follows feels like a noose tightening.
When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to nearly a whisper, but each word lands like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Then let's call it what it was."
Each syllable he utters sends tremors through Katherine's composure, her pulse thundering against the confines of her throat. "You liked it."
She holds herself statue-still, summoning years of practiced courtroom poise. Beneath her practiced calm, terror coils—and something darker, hungrier, that she refuses to name.
Benjamin's words curl through the air, each one a blade.
"You liked how it felt when you were on my lap. When you almost—"
The unfinished sentence lodges somewhere between her lungs and her pride. Her traitorous breath catches, a slight hitch that echoes in the charged space between them, damning as a signed confession.
He leans in, presence pressing against her skin, heavy as a palm at her throat. The satisfaction in his voice is dark, smug when he murmurs, "Is that why you ran? "Because you were one roll of your hips away from losing it—and I felt every second of it."
The words hit their mark with devastating precision. Kath keeps her face neutral, but she can't stop the heat that creeps up her neck, staining her skin with the truth she's trying so desperately to deny.
She sees the precise moment he catches it—the micro-shift of his lips, satisfaction curling at the corners.
His gaze darkens, knowing. Possessive.
“There you are,”he murmurs, voice like a velvet snare.
She opens her mouth, the denial already forming—sharp, panicked, defensive—
But he silences it with a sound.
“Tss.”
Not loud. Not angry. Just final. A quiet command that slices through her breath and halts everything.
He leans in, voice dropping to a hush—low and dark, with just enough velvet to make obedience feel like a gift.
“Don’t say it.”
Her breath stutters, chest tight. The truth coils behind her ribs like a loaded gun, but he doesn't need to pull the trigger—he already knows.
His certainty presses in, thick and inescapable, sealing the space around her like a locked door.
Then comes the final blow. Soft. Certain.
“My little liar.”
And it’s not an accusation. It’s a crown.
Her body betrays her with every heartbeat. Heat creeps up her throat, pulse hammering beneath her skin. She knows she should leave, knows every second she stays is another crack in her carefully constructed walls. But her feet remain rooted, caught in the gravity of his presence.
She doesn’t run. She should. Her mind tells her to walk away before the line blurs too far to redraw.
But her body moves first.
Deliberate. Unhurried. Certain.
If he sees this as surrender, fine. Let him.
Because the truth is—this is her decision. Not powerlessness. Not performance. Just choice.
