His presence filled the room, anyway.
That body—coiled tension in all black. That face—cut sharp enough to wound. That mouth?—
God. That mouth.
He didn’t speak. Just watched me like he was trying to memorize the way I breathed.
I wasn’t better. My pulse hammered behind my ribs, and I hated that he knew it. That he could see it. The dress didn’t help—ivory silk clinging to every curve, whisper-thin andunapologetic. It showed everything. Every rise of my breath, every shift of my thighs.
I’d thought about putting on panties this morning. Thought about coverage. Modesty. Control.
And then I didn’t.
Because some reckless, ruined part of me wanted him to see. Wanted to hear him gasp when he felt me.
I turned away, made a show of adjusting the window sheers. “You didn’t come up here to admire the upholstery.”
“I didn’t come up here at all,” he said, voice low. “You brought me.”
I ignored the heat that crawled up the back of my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“No flattery. Just facts.”
I turned then, finally facing him. “Is that what you’re calling this? Facts?”
He pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate, crossing the room in three easy strides. He didn’t touch me, but he got close. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
And suddenly, all I could think about was how he made me want to fight.
Not just argue—fight. He poked at the sore places, dragged things to the surface I’d spent years burying. With Silas, every glance felt like a dare, every breath a negotiation. He didn’t speak softly or sidestep the sharp edges. He met them head-on and somehow made me want to meet him right there in the middle of the storm.
Would people hear us if we lost control in here? If we snapped and clawed and tore into each other with words? Would the staff freeze behind their flower arrangements? Would Monte come pounding on the door like he had at the hotel last night, trying to break apart something that neither of us had the will—or the sense—to stop?
A flicker of heat passed down my spine. Not just at the idea of being caught. But at the deeper fear: that no one could stop us. Not really. Not when we were like this.
One look, and I was already burning.
“I don’t believe in marriage,” I said abruptly, like a line I’d been rehearsing.
His brow lifted, but he didn’t look surprised. “Neither do I.”
I blinked. “You don’t?”
“Nope.” He leaned one shoulder against the window frame, his gaze steady. “It’s a contract dressed up like devotion. Built on timing and paperwork. Half the people who do it don’t know what they’re signing. The other half are lying to themselves.”
It shouldn’t have made me feel anything. But somehow, it did.
I crossed my arms. “You’re even more cynical than I am.”
“I’m realistic.”
I blinked. “Do your brothers know that’s how you feel?”
He didn’t flinch. “They know enough. We’re different people. But I show up. Always will.”
I studied him for a moment, reading between the lines. “So what—you don’t believe in marriage, but you’ll still stand at the altar with them? Help them tie knots you wouldn’t ever tie yourself?”
His eyes flicked to mine, steady. “I love my brothers. That’s the only vow I’ve ever needed. They want this—ceremony, tradition, the works. I won’t ruin it for them.”
