“It doesn’t matter,” I answer. “You’re in it now.”
Her throat works around a swallow. “So I don’t get a say in that?”
The honest answer sits on my tongue, cold and absolute.
I take a slow step back, just enough to ease the tension in the air, just enough to keep from reaching for her again and showing her exactly how badly I mean to keep her.
“Get some sleep,” I say quietly. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She laughs once, hoarse. “You mean you’ll talk and I’ll pretend I have choices.”
I don’t argue. I just watch her.
No matter how many doors she tries to imagine open, the truth is already settled inside me.
I’m not letting her go.
Chapter Thirteen - Eden
I don’t mean to talk to him more. It just… happens.
It starts with something small. The kitchen light flickers once, twice, then gives a weak buzzing whine that grates on my nerves. Simon’s scrolling through something on his phone, leaning against the counter like he’s part of the architecture.
“You know,” I say, “for a man who runs half the city, you’d think you could manage working lightbulbs.”
His eyes lift from the phone, slow and deliberate. The corner of his mouth tips up. “You complaining about my hospitality?”
“Calling it hospitality is generous,” I reply. “I’m pretty sure kidnapping cancels out fresh linens and tea.”
His gaze sharpens, but there’s amusement there. “So you admit the linens are fresh.”
I stare at him, then roll my eyes. “That’s what you took from that?”
“Yes.”
The light flickers again. I point up. “I’m just saying, if you want to keep someone captive, maybe fix the electrical.”
“Duly noted,” he says, voice dry. “I’ll add it to my list of priorities. Right after ‘stop cartel from taking over my docks.’”
“I’d argue my lighting situation is more urgent.”
His smirk deepens. “I’m beginning to see why you attract trouble.”
The air between us hums with something unspoken. I feel it in the way he leans just slightly closer than he needs to, hands braced lightly on the counter, shoulders angled toward me. Hisgaze doesn’t just glance over me; it sticks, tracing the line of my throat before settling on my eyes again.
I pretend I don’t notice. My body very much does.
Our exchanges keep happening like this—small, sharp, threaded with something that feels too much like flirting for it to be safe. I test him in little ways, pushing at the edges of his rules, watching what gives and what doesn’t.
“Why can’t I go downstairs?” I ask one afternoon, arms folded.
“Because I said so,” he says.
“That’s not an answer. That’s a dictator slogan.”
“That’s a fact,” he counters. “I don’t want you in common areas. Too many eyes. Too many variables.”
“You own every floor in this building, and you need to control all of them?”
