Today, I let her in. Not because I need to—not for appearances, not as a ploy—but because I want her near. I want to watch the world bend around her.
She steps inside quietly, scanning the room with curious, wary eyes. Her presence fills the space with a charge that is almost unbearable—her scent, clean and lemon-bright, her hair loose down her back, her hand ghosting the edge of the velvet couch.
I watch her take it in. She doesn’t ask questions. She sits, legs curled beneath her, notebook on her lap, always observing.
“You can work here,” I say. My voice is gruffer than I intend, edged with something raw. “You’ll be safe.”
She glances up, searching my face. “Safe from what?”
I could list threats. Rivals, traitors, the city itself.
I step behind my desk and watch her settle. She belongs here more than she knows.
I change things for her—immediately, instinctively. Her old clothes vanish, replaced by soft, custom-cut fabric that flatters her curves, makes her glow. The room next to mine—barren, cold—becomes hers overnight. Fresh sheets, thick blankets, plants in the windows, books she’ll like, small luxuries she never asks for but always notices.
Eden tries to protest, sometimes, but I see the way she melts into comfort despite herself.
Meals become rituals. My chef learns her aversions, caters to her cravings—sour things, bland crackers, the occasional urge for something rich. She resists my interference, tries to regain some independence, bristles when I order too much, plan too far ahead. But the resistance stirs something primal in me.
Her fight doesn’t push me away. It makes me want to claim her harder, brand her with pleasure until there’s no part of her untouched by me.
She doesn’t see how much I’m holding back.
The world creeps in anyway. My men come and go, reporting quietly—coded language for threats, deliveries, jobs that turn violent. Weapons rest in plain sight: a pistol beside the monitor, a knife glinting atop paperwork. I expect her to flinch, to shy away from the monster she’s always known I am.
She doesn’t run. She sits on my couch, calm, legs tucked up, and reads while I carve order out of chaos.
When I bark orders, my voice cold and final, her eyes track every word. She never interrupts, never recoils. If anything, she looks at me with something close to understanding.
That steadiness undoes me.
At the end of a day heavy with tension, the air between us tightens into something electric. I send my last man away, close the door with a finality that echoes in my blood. Eden looks up, catches my gaze, and I see a question flicker across her face—a dare.
I don’t say a word. I stalk toward her, loosening my tie, rolling up my sleeves. She sits straighter, pulse fluttering at herthroat. There’s heat in her eyes, sharp and wary and wanting. I want to devour her.
I pull her to her feet in a single smooth motion. Her hands go to my chest, fingers flexing, her breath stuttering against my shirt. “Simon…”
“Don’t run now,” I murmur, voice low, all the darkness I usually hide seeping through. “You want to see all of me? You want to see what you do to me?”
She shakes her head, but her body betrays her—hips swaying closer, lips parting. I slide my hands over her hips, gripping her tight enough to bruise.
She gasps, but doesn’t pull away. I crowd her against the edge of the desk, one palm splayed at her lower back, pressing her to the hard wood. My mouth finds her neck, tasting salt and skin and fear.
I work her top up and over her head, mouth never leaving her throat. She shivers, goose bumps rising where my fingers brush her bare sides. She isn’t wearing a bra—a fact that undoes me, patience fracturing with every second.
My mouth covers one nipple, tongue flicking, sucking her soft flesh until she’s writhing, moaning, her fingers tangling in my hair.
I lift her onto the desk, yanking her skirt up around her hips, baring her to my gaze. She tries to close her legs, but I push her knees apart, kneeling between them. My hands grip her thighs, holding her open, exposed to me, only me.
“Simon!” Her voice is high, needy, pleading.
“I want you to remember who you belong to.” I press a kiss to the inside of her knee, trail it up her thigh, savoring the way she trembles under my mouth.
My tongue flicks over the damp seam of her panties, tasting the salt-sweet slickness that is all for me. I strip the last of her clothes away, and she’s bare, shivering on my desk.
She tries to hide her face, but I grip her jaw, force her to look at me. “Eyes on me, Eden.”
She obeys—flushed, glassy-eyed, lost. I lick a slow line up her slit, tasting her, claiming her. My tongue circles her clit, relentless, until her hips buck and her hands clamp over the edge of the desk.
