His restraint only feeds the storm tearing through me. And then his hand moves—one arm finally lifting, until his palm rests at the base of my throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Claiming. The weight of it is enough to make my pulse jump against his skin, enough to send heat surging sharp and fast. I should pull back. Instead, my body arches into his touch, traitorous, craving more.
His hand rests steady at my throat, anchoring me, keeping me suspended in that dangerous space between fury and desire. The silence stretches until it feels unbearable, my pulse tripping wildly against his palm.
Then, slowly, his touch softens. His thumb grazes along my jaw, a caress instead of a claim. “I can see it in your eyes, Angel.” He exhales slowly. “You want it. And fuck, I want you too. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. But tonight isn’t the night.”
My breath catches, the words slicing through me. The last time he told me ‘no,’ I was frustrated, but tonight that word lands differently.
“Not tonight,” he continues, his mouth close enough that I feel the heat of every word. “Tonight, you need rest. Food. You’ve been through so much, let me care for you. Let me give you peace. Just for one night.”
I swallow hard, the fight draining out of me. “You’re really saying no?”
His eyes never waver. “I’m saying I care for you enough to wait until tomorrow to ruin you.”
The anger inside me cracks, giving way to something I almost don’t recognize—relief. My throat tightens, not from rage but from the weight sliding off my shoulders. For seven years I’ve been running, surviving on scraps of safety, carrying every burden myself because there was no one else to bear it. For the past month, I was a hostage, thinking there was no way out. And now, here he is, steady and unshakable, refusing to let me crumble even when I want to. He’s not denying me, he wants to care for me. For the first time in years, I don’t have to fight, don’t have to flee, and don't have to be stronger than the storm. I can just let myself be here—tired, raw, cared for. And the release in that nearly undoes me more than his touch ever could.
When he stands, pulling me with him, I don’t resist. His arm comes around me, steady and sure, and I let myself exhale as he leads me away from the storm and toward something I never thought I’d crave from him.
Peace.
I’m cooking.
After I sent Zara to the guest bedroom with one of my shirts to clean up, I sent Lars a desperate text for instructions on something simple. He knew what was in my fridge, so after a trail of sarcastic punch lines, he sent me a detailed list of what to do and where everything is. It’s nothing fancy—chicken in the air fryer, vegetables on the side, bread warmed just enough to pass for effort. But for me, this is foreign territory. I’ve never stood in a kitchen with the intent of nourishing anyone.
Zara eyes me over the counter, my shirt swallowing her frame, her chin propped in her hand, eyes sparking with that amused disbelief that always manages to disarm me. “So you were lying when you said you couldn’t cook?” she teases, stabbing her fork toward the air fryer. “Do your men know you’re capable of pressing buttons that don’t involve explosives?”
I shake my head, setting the plate in front of her. “I might have sent an SOS for help. Hopefully you’re not too strong of a critic. Just eat and tell me it’s good.”
She smirks, the corner of her mouth curving as she picks up her fork. “Bossy and domestic. You’re just full of surprises.”
I don’t answer, because if I open my mouth, I’ll tell her the truth—that every piece of me wants to drag her out of that chair, bend her over the counter, and fuck her until she forgets her ownname. But she doesn’t need that tonight. She needs this. Quiet. Food. A reminder that someone is taking care of her.
We eat without ceremony, her poking at me now and then with more remarks about “Chef Marchetti” and how she never pictured me in an apron. I let her laugh, because every sound of it presses deep into my chest.
When she’s finished, I take her hand and lead her down the hall. Not to my room. To the guest room.
The tub is already filling, steam curling up into the air, carrying the scent of lavender I’d instructed the staff to leave out. On the bed, is one of my shirts for her to sleep in.
She turns to me, and I kiss her gently—just once. Nothing demanding. Nothing more than a promise pressed against her lips. Then I pull back. “Your bath’s ready. I left you another shirt, we’ll worry about proper clothes for you tomorrow. You’ll sleep here tonight.”
Her brow furrows, the question already on her lips, but I hush it with a hand at her cheek. “You need this, Angel. Please don’t protest, because right now, I’m not strong enough to put up a fight.”
I walk out before I can break. Before the part of me that’s been starving for her since the second she walked back into my life decides that peace can wait.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against the wall, dragging a hand through my hair. My cock is aching, my entire body pulled taut with the restraint it takes to walk away from her when I know she’ll be naked in the bathtub, in my home.
But this is strength. Real strength. Not pulling a trigger, not giving orders. This. Letting her breathe. Letting her begin to heal.
Because she deserves more than to be consumed by me. And if I have to starve for a night to prove it, I fucking will.
I’ve beenin my office for two hours, the glow of the monitors casting their light across files I should care more about. But all I can think about is the fact that she’s still sleeping.
Zara.
She slept through the night. That alone is worth more than every ledger, every deal.
When the door opens, I glance up. She’s there, barefoot, drowning in one of my shirts that slips off her shoulder. Her hair’s a mess, her skin still flushed from sleep, and my chest pulls tight at the sight of her—because for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks peaceful.
I swivel the chair toward her and extend a hand. “Come here.”
