His presence filled the room like smoke.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice too smooth for how hard it landed.
I set my glass down harder than I meant to; the sound echoing.
“Why?” I snapped. “What now? Another power play? A new way to make me feel like I’m just some piece in whatever twisted game you’re playing?”
He didn’t blink.
That damn smirk curved across his lips like he’d been expecting me to lash out.
“Nothing fancy,” he said coolly. His eyes flicked over me, unreadable but piercing, like he saw every emotion I’d been trying to swallow since last night.
I crossed my arms tight over my chest, trying to protect whatever was left of my pride. “Why should I listen to you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just held my gaze. Unmoving. Unflinching.
And maybe that should’ve scared me—but it didn’t.
It made me want to fight.
Then he said it. Calm. Certain. “You’ll want to wear something appropriate for what’s coming. Casual."
I hated the way that sentence landed.
Like a promise.
Like a dare.
Like he knew I wouldn’t be able to walk away.
And the worst part?
For one brief, reckless second—I didn’t want to.
I stood, fists clenched at my sides, heat rising beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
Casual, he said. Like I could just throw on a pair of jeans and pretend we weren’t caught in the middle of a slow-burning war.
I stalked toward the bedroom, anger pounding behind my eyes. I slammed the door behind me—loud, final—and leaned against it for a breath that didn’t come. My chest was tight, my hands already rifling through clothes with more force than necessary.
Everything looked wrong.
Too soft.
Too feminine.
Too much like something he’d undress me in.
I shoved those pieces aside.
My hand landed on a black tank top. Simple. Fitted. Solid enough to remind me I was still here. I paired it with high-waisted ripped jeans that showed just enough skin to feel like rebellion. Like a warning. Like a girl you couldn’t own.
The combat boots were non-negotiable. Heavy. Loud. Unapologetic. They grounded me in ways words never could.
I caught my reflection and narrowed my eyes.
“You don’t own me,” I muttered, mascara wand in hand, even though some traitorous part of me wondered if he believed otherwise.
