“You were supposed to orient,” he says. “And wait.”
The floor beneath me feels like it’s moving.
I want to tell him about the rent and bills, about the boutique and Raquel, about Clara and the ten-day clock eating away at me. I want to tell the truth and still be forgiven.
But I can’t.
“I still have responsibilities. I came back.”
“That’s not the point.” He moves closer, his proximity nearly stealing my breath. “You don’t leave this property without permission. You use the phone I provided. You didn’t even take it. Five minutes means five minutes.”
It’s maddening what his voice does to me, making my pussy clench even when I’m scared. “I left a note.”
“You left a test whether you realize that was what you were doing or not.” A slight pause. “You won’t like what happens if strangers decide you are a convenient way to get to me.”
The prickle from earlier blooms under my skin.
“Strangers,” I echo. He means enemies.
I think of the dark sedan, the one I was sure had been following me.
“You are not invisible anymore. There are men who would try to hurt you to get to me because they think it’s easier. If you move without protection, you invite them to do just that.”
I lift my chin in defiance, worried my body might betray my fear. “So I’m a liability.”
“You’re an asset,” he corrects. “Assets are protected. Protection requires rules.”
My mind hates the sentence; my body chooses otherwise. Heat sparks low and fast, unfair and undeniable. He sees the change the way a predator would. He looks me up and down, as if I’m both game and feast.
“Eyes,” he says. I meet his gaze, giving him what he asks because I’m learning.
He places his hand under my jaw and tilts my face, studying it.
“Kneel.”
I sink down, knees on the soft rug, skirt pulling tight across my hips. Every nerve hums like a struck note, tuned to him.
His eyes look to my wrist. He takes my hand and pulls back my sleeve, checking. The red ribbon is there, tied neatly against my skin. His mouth curves, faint but certain.
“Good,” he says. “At least there’s one direction you can follow.”
I take a deep breath, registering the rush of pride along with the ache of uncertainty.
“Hands,” he says. “Behind you.”
I lace them behind my back. He studies me for a long beat—cataloguing, weighing, deciding—then nods once, approval distilled to a single gesture.
“Good.”
The praise hits like voltage. I feel my shoulders square up, my spine aligning like it’s been waiting for this exact teaching.
“You will ask before you leave the grounds,” he says. “You will keep the phone with you and answer inside five minutes. Privacy. Precision. Truth. These are not suggestions.” Hisknuckle skims my lower lip. “They are rules. You follow them, or you leave, not a penny more in your pocket. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Heat runs beneath my skin at his every touch.
“The ribbon,” he says, “is a reminder. Not a decoration. Do you understand the difference?”
“I do.”
