Her legs wrap around my waist. It’s not urgent or clingy. It’s anchoring in a way that locks me in place.
I keep my eyes open this time. That’s the mistake.
She meets my gaze and doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t smile or try to soften what’s happening between us. Instead, she holds my attention and lets me see her, unguarded and steady.
Something tightens hard in my chest. My breath stutters. My hold on her shifts without me meaning it to.
I slow down.
The change isn’t dramatic, but it’s deliberate. I move more carefully now, aware of the way her body responds to every inch of me, aware that if I push too hard, I won’t just take control. I’ll lose it entirely.
The sounds she makes are quieter, closer to my ear. Her hands slide up my back and settle there, firm and grounding, holding me in place instead of urging me on.
When I finally come, it hits me hard, my body shuddering despite my effort to contain it. I pull back at the last second and finish against her skin, breath tearing out of me as I bury my face in her shoulder until my pulse slows.
I don’t say anything I can’t take back. Neither does she.
The silence holds, heavy but intact, like we’re both aware of the line we crossed and choosing not to name it yet.
We lie tangled together, her head resting against my chest. My heartbeat is still loud, uneven, a reminder that this hasn’t settled the way it should have.
I stare at the ceiling and catalog exits that do not exist.
This was not leverage.
The weight of that knowledge settles in my chest, heavier than any chain. My body is still buzzing with adrenaline, muscles tight, breath uneven.
I wakewith Coco beside me, her steady breaths cutting through the quiet of the room.
It’s still dark. The artificial daylight hasn’t come on yet. No clock. No markers. Just the low hum of the bunker and the slow, even rhythm of her breathing against my chest.
I let myself look at her.
Her hair is tangled from sleep. Her lashes rest against her cheeks, casting faint shadows. One arm is tucked beneath her head, the other draped against me, relaxed in a way that suggests she never once thought about leaving.
That detail sits heavier than it should.
There’s no performance in her even now. No guarded tension. Just her, warm and solid beside me, like this is where she expects to be.
That expectation is the problem.
My father warned me early to trust no one. Especially not the children of men who make enemies the way Laurent Boudreaux does. And yet here I am, lying next to his daughter, letting proximity blur lines I’ve spent years drawing in steel.
Every part of this arrangement lives on the edge of something dangerous. Wanting her. Keeping her close. Knowing exactly who she is and what her last name means. It’s a gamble where the odds are fixed, and I stepped in anyway.
Sleep doesn’t come back. I shift carefully and slide out of bed without waking her, the sudden absence of her warmth registering more than I want it to. I stand there for a moment, looking down at her, a tight knot forming low in my gut that I have no business indulging.
Work. Control. Focus.
I leave the room quietly and head for the home theater. The security feeds blink to life, every angle of the bunkerand the land above scrolling past in familiar sequence. Routine steadies me. It always has.
Then I see her.
The timestamp reads just before I got back to the bunker. She’s in the study, her movements are careful, deliberate as she goes through the drawers.
My jaw tightens as I fast-forward, watching her find something, examine it, then leave the room.
She slips whatever it is beneath the mattress in the guest room.
