What's the play here, D?
I stared at the question for a long moment before deleting my draft and pocketing the phone. The play was keeping her. The play was making her understand she belonged to me. The play was patience I didn't possess and control that was slipping through my fingers like sand.
Footsteps in the hallway pulled my attention. Light. Barefoot. I'd learned the sound of her already—the way she moved through space like she was mapping escape routes with every step.
That would change.
I turned as she appeared in the doorway, hair damp and falling in dark waves around her shoulders. She'd changed into black leggings and an oversized sweater that hung off one shoulder. No makeup. No armor. Just skin and defiance and fire in those whiskey-colored eyes.
"We needto talk," she said.
"Do we?"
"You can't keep me here indefinitely."
"Watch me."
She stepped into the study, and I watched her take in everything—the books lining the walls, the mahogany desk, the hidden safe behind the Caravaggio. Smart girl. Always learning the terrain.
"What do you want from me?" The question came out sharp, but there was something underneath it. Something vulnerable she was trying to hide.
"I already told you."
"No. You told me what youdon'twant. You told me my father's plans. You told me I'm safer here." She crossed her arms, the gesture both defensive and defiant. "But you haven't told me what you actually want."
I moved around the desk, putting distance between us because proximity was dangerous. "Maybe I haven't decided yet."
"Liar."
The word hung in the air like a thrown knife. I felt my jaw tighten, felt the mask I wore for everyone else start to crack.
"Careful, Julietta."
"Or what?" She took a step closer, and I watched her hands ball into fists at her sides. "You'll lock me up? You already did that. You'll threaten me? You already did that too. What else is left?"
Everything. Nothing. The space between damnation and redemption.
I closed the distance between us in three strides, and satisfaction flared when her eyes widened. She didn't retreat. Didn't flinch. Just lifted her chin and met my gaze head-on like she wasn't five-foot-five and unarmed in a locked penthouse with a man who'd killed for less.
"You really want to know what I want?" My voice came out low, dangerous. The bourbon and restraint and hours of denying myself burned through every word.
"Yes."
"You already know."
Her breath hitched. Just a fraction. Just enough to tell me she understood exactly what this was.
"Say it," she whispered.
"No."
"Coward."
The word detonated something inside me. I grabbed her wrist—firm enough to make a point, not cruel enough to hurt—and pulled her flush against me. Her gasp was sharp, startled, but she didn't pull away.
"Careful, princess." I bent my head until my lips were a breath away from her ear. "You might like what happens next."
"You don't scare me."
