I don’t like how my chest warms with knowing that she’s fully surrendered to me tonight. I’m no fool, and am aware it’s more than likely a fleeting submission. But I’ll wear her down. The chase is what keeps me hungry.
I lower her slowly, the heat of the water licking at my skin as I ease her in. She inhales sharply when the water reaches her waist, her hands gripping my wrists. But she doesn’t pull away.
For a second, my hands linger beneath her, keeping her steady. Then I force myself to let go.
I stand, brushing the jasmine-scented bubbles from the bubble bath and warm water off my forearms, scowling down at her. “Try not to drown.”
She blinks up at me, something unreadable in her expression. Then, finally, she speaks, soft, amused, tired.
“Thank you, Hayden.”
I scoff, already turning away.
But I don’t leave. Not yet.
I linger in the doorway, my gaze fixed silently on her as she sinks deeper into the steaming water, releasing a quiet sigh of surrender. Her eyes close, her muscles visibly relax, and for a brief moment, I allow myself the selfish pleasure of watching her vulnerability, letting the water envelop and claim her.
Finally, I pull myself away, retreating to the solitude of my study. The leather of the wingback chair creaks beneath me, the familiar silence wrapping around me like armor.
It’s intoxicating, having her. Something I’ve obsessed over for years, now real, within reach, in my hands. Mine to command, to mold, to destroy if I choose to.
That was the plan, wasn’t it?
Ruin her. Make her pay for what she does to me, for the way she gets under my skin, scrambles my judgment, makes me forget who I am.
But now, with her finally beneath me, branded by my touch and no one else’s…I’m not so sure.
Because I don’t want to let her go. Not anymore.
That want, need, to control her is bleeding into something else. Something dangerous, that looks too much like keeping her.
But peace never lasts.
Just after midnight, the house phone rings sharply. One chime, nothing more.
That's all it ever takes—one ring, a summons impossible to ignore. A single ring signifies an assignment, an unspoken order that demands immediate obedience. It infuriates the Brotherhood that I refuse to carry a pager, stubbornly insisting on this outdated, clandestine ritual. Let them be angry; I prefer the simplicity of a single call, a direct command.
I rise steadily, deliberately, suppressing the irritation that coils in my gut. Even here, I can’t escape them, not for a single damned night.
By the time I reach my room, my suit is already meticulously laid out on the bed, waiting for me. My staff is ever vigilant, always several steps ahead, anticipating every demand. The suit is black, immaculate, and perfectly tailored. It is sharp and crisp, a flawless reflection of the man they expect me to be.
Sliding into the fabric, straightening cuffs and collar, I feel the weight of expectation settle over me, familiar yet suffocating. With one last adjustment, I step forward, prepared once again to face whatever midnight command awaits me.
I finish dressing in the dark, muscle memory guiding me through the motions. The silver cufflinks snap into place, their weight familiar and grounding. The ring on my finger is colder than it was an hour ago. I twist it once, then let my hands fall to my sides. I grab my knife and slide it into the back of my waistband. Most Bonesmen carry a gun, but I prefer a knife that can slice through bones like butter. Having fenced my whole life, I feel most comfortable around blades to guns.
Before I go, without even thinking, I check on Martine.
The door to her room is cracked open. A sliver of warm light from the hallway stretches across the floorboards. I step inside without a sound.
She’s asleep, her breath slow and steady, her body curled beneath the sheets, tiny against the vastness of the bed. The curve of her bare shoulder catches the dim glow of the moon filtering through the window—her hair fans across the pillow.
For a moment, I just watch.
She looks peaceful. Soft. I want to bite into her and disrupt her from her rest. Make her jolt up so I can be fascinated by the fear on her face. It’s so sexy when she’s terrified of me.
I’m still going to make her life hell, but tonight I’ll let her rest. She was a good girl after all.
She looks the way people should be in sleep. Soft, full of trust in her surroundings. She doesn’t know I’m here, and she doesn’t know where I’m going, and yet she rests like she’s safe. Martine is naive—brave, but naive.
