Morning light spillsthrough the tall windows, casting long streaks across the marble as I make my way downstairs. I’m already dressed for work, just hoping to grab a quick bite before heading out. I sigh as I turn toward the kitchen, already knowing he won’t be there.
Last night, I could’ve sworn I felt him near me. Or maybe that was just a dream. A hazy impression I can’t quite remember, but can’t fully shake either.
Then I walk into the kitchen and stop cold.
He’s seated at the counter, looking like something out of a magazine. Navy trousers hug his powerful thighs, and his pale blue shirt stretches just enough across his shoulders to make me stare longer than I should. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, veins on display, a diamond-studded watch catching the sunlight.
He looks like power. Effortless, commanding power. And way too good-looking for my sanity.
Jesus. Why does my husband have to be so hot?
Not a thought I ever imagined having, but here we are.
“Good morning.” His mouth lifts by a fraction. A hint of a smile, nothing more.
“Morning,” I manage, keeping my voice casual.
He doesn’t get to hear whatever cracks underneath, or how some part of me might have…missed him. If that’s what this is.
Before I can sit, he rises and moves toward the stove.
“Tea?” he asks.
I nod, not sure what to think as he grabs a green tea bag and wraps it around a spoon before pouring steaming water into a mug. He crosses the room and holds the cup out to me just as I lower myself onto the seat beside his.
His fingers faintly brush against mine when I take it. It’s nothing. Just a touch. Barely there. Yet it moves through me like a current, seeping into every corner of my body and lighting up places I’ve tried to keep dark.
His eyes flick, catching mine. Searching, maybe seeing too much.
I drop my gaze and busy myself with straightening my napkin like it suddenly matters.
He doesn’t move. Just stands there a beat too long, close enough that I can feel the weight of his stare on my skin. Then he steps back, returning to his seat, his chair scraping against the floor cutting through the silence.
But before he sits, his eyes drop to my left hand. “You’re not wearing your ring.”
The rough way he says it makes my body prickle, tone dripping with that quiet kind of dominance that always gets under my skin.
I shrug, flat and unapologetic. “Nope.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my hand. “Where is it?”
“In the nightstand. Where it belongs.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just peers at me in that calculating way, like he’s debating whether to punish me now or later.
He suddenly pushes his chair back in a way that makes me tense. “I’ll go get it for you.”
“Don’t.” I lift my hand up. “I’m not wearing it to work. And that’s final.”
His jaw flexes. “Then you’ll wear it at home. And everywhere else.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It is now.” He pulls himself in, grabbing his coffee mug, calm as ever. “Next time I see that finger bare, I’ll glue it on myself. Do you understand me, Ms. Prosecutor?”
My mouth parts, ready to argue, to remind him that he doesn’t own me. But the words never make it out. Not when his voice sounds like that. Possessive in a way that slides down my spine and twines deep. Like every line I’ve drawn is just waiting to be erased. And a big part of me doesn’t even want to stop it.
We eat in silence, the clink of silverware the only sound between us. I try to focus on my breakfast, pretending I don’t feel his eyes on me every few minutes.
