He didn’t look at her. That was what made it worse.
His hands rested loosely on his thighs, fingers relaxed but strong, the tendons visible beneath skin that had known violence and discipline in equal measure. He wasn’t touching her. He wasn’t even close enough to brush her. But the distance seemed intentional.
She turned her head. He felt it. She knew he did. He stiffened just slightly before he finally looked back ather.
And there it was. Not anger. Possession. Not crude. Not greedy. But absolute.
Her breath shortened. The bronze silk across her chest rose and fell a little faster than she intended. The awareness between themwas no longer theoretical. It was visceral. He could close the distance in a single movement. He could pull her across the leather seat, fit her between his thighs, claim her mouth until she forgot her ownname.
The image flashed hot and immediate in her mind. And he saw it. She knew he sawit.
His hand twitched once, as though resisting the instinct to reach for her. The restraint was physical now, not conceptual. Power held in check by choice alone.
“You’re shaking,” he observed.
She was aware of how little space separated them. Of the width of his shoulders. The strength in his hands. Of the fact that if he reached for her, she wouldn’t resist. Not because she had to. Because she wouldn’t wantto.
The realization struck harder than his words. Wanting him wasn’t survival. It wasn’t strategy. It was hunger, and it answered something in her she’d buried under debt and obedience.
“I’m not shaking,” she lied, even though she’d promised not to. Even as the smallest tremor betrayedher.
His gaze dropped, not to her breasts, not openly, but to the space between them. The charged inches that could disappear with one decision. “I could take you. You know I want to. But—” He paused and didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. The rest of it lingered in the air between them, unspoken and dangerous.
She held his gaze. And didn’t lookaway.
His expression remained composed, unreadable, yet she sensed beneath it the same consideration she’d seen in the atelier. He didn’t move without purpose.“I have work I can’t postpone,” he said after a moment.
He didn’t apologize. He didn’t moderate the statement to cushion her reaction.
She wasn’t sure she wanted him to. The car slowed as if on cue, turning away from the financial district and into a stretch of marble facades and discreet entrances. Magnus leaned forward slightly, giving a brief instruction to the driver she couldn’t quite hear, then settled back again. He didn’t look at her this time, but his restraint held power, especially the way he chose distance instead of escalation. When the vehicle stopped beneath a private canopy and a uniformed attendant opened her door first, she realized this next move had been planned as thoroughly as the rest. Not dismissal. Not indulgence. Preparation.
She shot him a questioning look. “What...?”
“It’s a private spa. You’ll spend the afternoon here,” Magnus had told her before the attendant opened her door. “It’s secure. No Donati access. No interruptions.” He hadn’t framed it as indulgence. He’d framed it as strategy.
The spa was hushed and immaculate, white marble and muted light, the kind of restrained luxury that didn’t advertise itself yet cost a fortune to maintain. She was escorted to a private suite and left alone with steam and silence, the door closing with a decisive click that sounded more like protection than confinement. As she undressed,hanging her new clothing with care, she studied her reflection in the mirror.
Visible.
Steam curled around her, clinging to the curve of her breasts, trailing down the flat of her stomach. The memory of his knee against her thigh surfaced unbidden. She shifted on the chaise and stilled when sensation followed.
He hadn’t taken her.
He’d waited.
And the waiting was beginning to undoher.
If he’d wanted her for his bed, he could have taken her already. He’d touched her—his hand firm at her waist when guiding her through the atelier, his fingers lingering a fraction too long when he helped her into her coat, the clasp of her hand at the table, the subtle press of his knee against hers beneath the linen.
None of it accidental. None of it careless. And yet he had never crossed the line she kept braced for. That careful proximity unsettled her more than open hunger would have, because it left her nowhere to hide from the truth simmering beneath her own skin. He wasn’t restraining himself out of indifference. He was choosing not to take. And that choice forced her to confront her own desire without the shield of obligation.
Elia wrapped herself in a white robe, skin warm from the steam, she sat on the edge of the chaise and picked up the phone. Her thumb hovered before she pressed hisname.
He answered on thefirstring.
“Magnus.”
The deep timbre of his voice slid through her, intimate without effort.
