And that's the most disturbing part—he does know me, in ways no one else has bothered to learn. He's tracked not just my physical movements and financial status but the intimate rituals of my heart. The realization is both terrifying and, God help me, seductive.
"This isn't healthy," I say weakly.
"Perhaps not by conventional standards," he concedes. "But it is profound. It is absolute. And it is ours."
His mouth claims mine before I can respond, swallowing my objections with a kiss that's both punishment and persuasion. His hand remains on my throat, a physical reminder of his control, while the other slides around my waist to pull me against him.
I should push him away. I should demand my freedom, tear up the contract, flee this beautiful prison and the dangerous man who created it. Instead, I find myself responding to his kiss, my body betraying my mind as it always seems to do with Roman. My hands clutch at his shoulders, my lips parting under the insistent pressure of his.
When he finally releases me, we're both breathing hard. His eyes have darkened with desire, but there's something else there too—a fierce possessiveness that should terrify me more than it does.
"You can be angry about my methods," he says, his voice rough with want. "You can question my ethics. But don't question the result, Delilah. Don't question what we've found together."
"And what exactly have we found?" I ask, needing to hear him define this twisted connection between us.
His smile is slow and predatory. "Completion. You fulfill something in me I didn't know was missing. And I..." His thumb strokes over my pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of my heart. "I give you what you've always needed but never admitted wanting. Structure. Discipline. Absolute devotion paired with absolute demand."
There's a terrible truth in his words that I can't quite deny. For all the disturbing revelations, for all the boundary violations and manipulations, there is something about Roman's focused intensity that fills a void I've carried since my parents died. A void of belonging, of mattering absolutely to someone.
"I need time to process this," I say, trying to create some mental space even as my body remains pressed against his.
"No," he says simply. "You've had enough time in your head, enough distance. What you need now is to stop thinking and start accepting."
His hand slides from my throat to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my neck to his mouth. "Accept that I knew you before you knew me," he murmurs against my skin. "Accept that I tracked you, studied you, waited for the perfect moment to claim you." His teeth graze my pulse point, sending unwelcome heat spiraling through me. "Accept that you're mine in ways that transcend our contract."
My hands are numb where they grip his shoulders, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as dangerous surrender. Every revelation should push me further away from Roman, make me more determined toescape his possessive grip. Instead, each disturbing disclosure only entangles me further in his web, as if the intensity of his obsession is an intoxicant I can't resist.
"I should be terrified of you," I whisper as his mouth works its way down my throat.
"You are," he murmurs against my skin. "And you should be. I am not a safe man, Delilah." His teeth nip at my collarbone, making me gasp. "But I am a man who will protect what's his with every resource at my disposal. You will never be more secure than you are in my possession."
The terrible irony is that I believe him. For all his boundary violations, all his obsessive surveillance, Roman Wolfe is a man who guards his possessions with lethal efficiency. And for reasons I can't fully articulate even to myself, I've become his most valued possession.
As his hands slide beneath my shirt, as his mouth reclaims mine with hungry intent, I realize I'm in far deeper than any contract could bind me. I'm caught in a web of my own making—one part fear, one part desire, and one part terrible recognition that Roman's obsession with me has become my obsession with him.
And I have no idea if I'll be able to break free when our thirty days are done—or if I'll even want to.
eleven
. . .
The charity galaglitters with old money and older names. Crystal chandeliers cast everything in flattering light, turning even the wrinkled faces of aging socialites into studies of dignified beauty. I stand at the edge of the ballroom in a gown that costs more than a semester's tuition—blood-red silk that Roman selected with specific intent, his eyes darkening as he watched me put it on. "You'll be the only splash of real color in a sea of black and navy," he'd said, fastening a diamond necklace around my throat. "I want every eye on what's mine."
And eyes are on me, even when Roman is at my side. Now that he's been pulled into conversation with the mayor and a cluster of city officials, those glances have grown bolder. I sip champagne and try to appear confident, as if I belong in this world of casual wealth and power. As if the diamonds at my throat are anything but a beautiful collar.
"I don't believe we've met." The voice beside me is pleasant, cultured, with just enough warmth to distinguish it from the practiced tones of the other guests. I turn to find a man about Roman's age watching me with genuine interest. He's handsome in a conventional way—blond hair, blue eyes, the kind of smilethat probably opened doors for him since childhood. "James Harrington."
The name sounds vaguely familiar. "Delilah Monroe," I respond, remembering Roman's instructions about appropriate social behavior. Smile, be polite, but reveal nothing personal.
"Ah, you're with Wolfe," he says, recognition dawning in his eyes as he glances across the room to where Roman stands with his back to us. "I've been trying to get a meeting with him for months. The man's practically a ghost these days."
"He's been... occupied," I say carefully.
James's smile turns knowing. "So I see." His eyes take in my gown, the diamonds, the carefully styled hair. "You're not his usual type."
I arch an eyebrow. "And what is his usual type?"
"Interchangeable," James says with a candid directness that surprises me. "Beautiful, certainly, but lacking... substance. You, on the other hand..." He studies me with genuine curiosity. "You have intelligence in your eyes. Makes me wonder what you're doing with someone like Roman Wolfe."
