Awake.
Like she’s starting to realize what being near me really means.
“You did the right thing coming here,” I say finally, voice low. “You wanted communication. This is it. Ugly, messy, and necessary. You don’t have to like me, Sienna. But you’re going to have to trust me.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a long moment before she slowly nods, “I’ll try.”
That’s all I get. That’s all I need.
For now.
Slowly, I push back my chair and stand, moving around the desk before I can second-guess it. She watches me, steady, no flinching or fear in those intoxicating gold eyes.
I stop beside her chair, close enough to catch the faint sweetness of her shampoo, something warm and clean that crawls under my skin and makes me want more than she’s willing to give.
That she’s going tohaveto give.
Her head tips slightly, like she’s waiting for me to say something else. Instead, I reach down, catching a strand of her hair between my fingers. Soft. Silky. It slides free too easily, and I want to fist it, hold it, and keep her here.
“You make it hard to stay in control,” I murmur, my voice low off more admission than threat. My hand drifts, brushing the side of her face before my knuckles tilt her chin up, just enough to make her look at me. “But…you know you’re going to have to see me, Sienna. You’re going to have to get pregnant.”
Now she looks terrified.
Her cheeks pinken, eyes glossed in trepidation and hopelessness. She doesn’t want me, but I can’t help but want her in every way possible.
“Or we can pretend…you lost the baby until you’re ready.”
I feel her heavy exhale brush along my hand when she says, “How?”
“You fell. Or…you just miscarried.”
“Wouldn’t that…mess things up?”
They would.
However, I’m not going to rape and force her to have my child. When I do fuck her again…she’s going to beg me for it.
“I’ll worry about the aftermath,” I emit evenly. “My father’s doctor has already been bought. The rest is in our hands.”
“And you trust him?”
A mirthless chuckle rumbles from my throat. “My moneyboughthim, princess. I’m much scarier than my father.”
She doesn’t look to believe me and, honestly, I’d like to keep it that way. There’s no need for my future wife to see what kind of villain she’s marrying.
I let my thumb ghost over her jaw. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, do you? You’re making me soft.”
Her throat makes a tiny sound—half-laugh, half-breath—and for a second, the office feels too small. I can taste the irony of it: the man who built a life on being hard, softened by a girl who smells like flour and lavender.
“I—” She swallows, steadying herself. “I wanted to ask you something else.”
And here it goes.
Dropping my touch on her jaw, I ready myself for a fight or her royally pissing me off. “What is it?”
“I made a few new recipes last night. Lucy helped. I—” Her voice tightens for a second. “Would you…taste them? Tell me what you think?”
It’s so small—stupidly small. A ridiculous, domestic ask. It’s like she’s offering me a loaf of bread and asking me to hold it like we’re not bartering for lives.
