twelve
. . .
"I need space,"I tell Roman the morning after the gala, the words falling between us like stones into still water. We're in the kitchen, the marble countertop a barrier I deliberately placed between us. He looks up from his tablet, his expression unchanged, but something in his eyes shifts—a predator recognizing the first signs of prey attempting to flee. "Space," he repeats, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. "Interesting timing, after I caught another man touching what's mine."
The possessive statement makes my spine stiffen. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, Roman. I'm not yours. Not... not permanently. Not like you seem to think."
He sets the tablet down with deliberate care, his movements controlled in a way that makes my pulse quicken. "Have you forgotten our agreement so quickly, Delilah? The contract you signed?"
"The contract gives you control for a month," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "It doesn't give you ownership of my entire existence. What happened last night—the way you acted at the gala—it was excessive. Embarrassing."
"Embarrassing," he repeats, the word dangerously soft. "You were embarrassed by my protection? My claim?"
"It wasn't protection. It was possession. There's a difference." I grip the edge of the counter for support. "James wasn't a threat. He was just being friendly."
Roman's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "James Harrington hasn't done anything 'just friendly' in his entire life. Every action he takes is calculated for advantage." He rises from his stool, moving around the counter with unhurried confidence. "But that's irrelevant. The issue isn't Harrington's intentions. It's yours."
"My intentions?" I step back as he approaches, something in his deliberate stalking making my heart race. "I was just talking to him."
"No." The single word cuts through my protest. "You were pushing boundaries. Testing limits. Seeing how far you could go." He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "I understand the impulse, Delilah. The need to test the cage, to see if the bars will bend."
"I'm not a prisoner," I insist, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
"Aren't you?" His hand rises to cup my face, the touch deceptively gentle. "A prisoner of circumstance, perhaps. Of need. Of desire." His thumb brushes my lower lip. "Of your own growing addiction to my attention."
I jerk away from his touch, angry at how accurately he's read me. "That's not true."
"No?" Roman's smile is knowing. "Then why did you beg me to take you in the car last night? Why did you whisper that you were mine as you came apart in my arms?" His voice drops lower. "Why are you trembling now, not with fear, but with anticipation?"
Heat floods my cheeks at the reminder of my surrender last night, of the words I'd gasped in the throes of pleasure. "That was... physical. It doesn't mean?—"
"It means exactly what we both know it means," he interrupts, his tone hardening. "It means that despite your intellectual objections, your body recognizes its master. Your mind is simply... lagging behind."
"My mind," I say with all the defiance I can muster, "is the part of me you don't own, Roman. The part you can't control."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—a challenge accepted. "Can't I?" He steps closer, backing me against the wall, caging me with his body without actually touching me. "You signed control of your body to me for thirty days, Delilah. But I think it's time for a more... comprehensive lesson in surrender."
My breath comes faster, a mixture of fear and unwelcome excitement coursing through me. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he says, his voice dropping to that soft register that always makes my stomach clench, "that you need to be punished for your little rebellion. For allowing another man's eyes and hands on what belongs exclusively to me."
"Punished?" I repeat, the word sending a forbidden thrill through me. "You can't be serious."
His smile is predatory. "I'm always serious, Delilah. Especially about what's mine." He steps back, putting deliberate space between us. "Go to the bedroom. Remove your clothes. Kneel at the foot of the bed and wait for me."
The command is so unexpected, so imperious, that for a moment I can only stare at him. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you're in breach of contract," he says simply. "And the consequences will be... significant."
We both know he's not talking about legal repercussions. This is about the power dynamic between us, about who controlsand who submits. About my growing need for his approval, his attention, his possession.
"Five minutes, Delilah," he says, turning back to his tablet as if the matter is settled. "I suggest you use them wisely."
I should refuse. I should remind him that "punishment" wasn't part of our agreement. I should maintain the boundaries I was trying to establish. Instead, I find myself moving toward the bedroom, my heart pounding with a mixture of trepidation and shameful anticipation.
In the bedroom, I undress with trembling fingers, each removed article of clothing feeling like shedding a layer of protection. When I'm completely naked, I kneel at the foot of the bed as instructed, my body betraying my mind's objections with signs of arousal I can't control.
Roman enters exactly five minutes later, his expression inscrutable as he surveys me. He's changed into black slacks and a black button-down shirt, the monochromatic palette making him look more dangerous than usual. In his hands, he carries items I can't immediately identify.
