“Miss Hughes?”A woman’s voice, gentle and accented.“Are you awake?”
I pulled the robe tighter, suddenly aware of how little I was wearing beneath it, and opened the door.
Alice stood in the hallway with a silver tray.Steam rose from a china cup, and the smell of coffee cut through my anger like sunlight through fog.Rich and dark and exactly what I needed after a night of barely sleeping, tossing in unfamiliar sheets that smelled like him.
Her kind eyes crinkled at the corners as she took in my disheveled state.The same warmth I’d noticed when I first arrived, so at odds with the cold formality of this house.
“Good morning, miss.Mr.Antonov thought you’d be more comfortable with your own things here.”She set the tray on the small table by the window.“Breakfast is available whenever you’re ready, but I thought you might want coffee first.”
He thought I’d be more comfortable.
“He thought?”My voice came out sharp.“He didn’t ask.”
Alice’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes.Sympathy, quickly suppressed.She’d probably seen this before.Other women, other mornings, other violations dressed up as consideration.
“Mr.Antonov is in his study, miss.Down the hall, third door on the left.”
She left before I could respond.
I stood there in his robe, surrounded by my belongings, and felt the walls closing in.The coffee steamed on the tray, untouched.Outside the window, winter gardens stretched toward a high stone wall topped with iron spikes.
No easy way out.
I left the coffee untouched, steeling myself for what had to come next.
I found him exactly where Alice said he’d be.
The study was all dark wood and leather, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a massive desk positioned to face the door.He sat behind it in a fresh suit, charcoal gray, reviewing papers like this was any other Sunday morning.Like he hadn’t had his mouth on my body twelve hours ago.Like he hadn’t sent me away aching and furious and so aroused I’d barely slept.
He looked up when I entered, and his gaze traveled down the length of me in a slow, measured sweep.The robe.My bare feet on his hardwood floor.My hair, which I hadn’t bothered to brush, tangled from a restless night.
Something heated in his eyes.Satisfaction.Possession.Like he enjoyed seeing me disheveled and wearing his things.
“You moved my things.”
I’d meant it to come out calm.Controlled.Instead it sounded exactly like what it was.An accusation.
He set down his pen with measured care.“Good morning to you too.”
“You had people go through my apartment.My personal belongings.My mother’s sheet music.”I crossed my arms over my chest, acutely aware that I wasn’t wearing a bra beneath the silk.“You had no right.”
“You’re contracted to be here every night.”His voice was mild.Reasonable.Infuriating.“Why would you want to commute with a suitcase?”
“It’s about consent.About asking.”
“I don’t ask.”
Three words, delivered without apology.I felt them land like a slap.He rose from behind the desk, and I made myself hold my ground even as he approached.Even as his presence filled the room, sucking up all the oxygen until I could barely breathe.
He was taller than I remembered.Broader.His shoulders blocked the light from the window as he stopped close enough that I could feel the warmth pouring off him.His scent was stronger here, cutting through the leather and old paper smell of the study.Sandalwood and something darker underneath.Something that made my nipples tighten beneath the silk.
His eyes dropped to the robe again, and his mouth curved.He’d noticed.
“You look better in my things.”
“This isn’t negotiable.”I fought to keep my voice steady, to ignore the way my body was responding to his proximity.“You don’t make decisions about my life without my input.”
“You signed a contract that makes you mine for a year.”He said it like he was explaining something simple to a child.“Your things are an extension of you.Therefore they’re mine too.”
