Page 72 of Temporary Vows

"What's the final thing, little lamb?"

She's been steady all this time, but something shifts in her composure. She looks down at her hands, then back up at me, and there's a discomfort in her eyes she can't mask.

"I don't want to do IVF." Her voice is quieter. "I… don't want to put my body through something so drastic for a contract."

Her fingers twist together in her lap. She won't look at me fully, and I understand what she can't bring herself to say—she won't go through that for a man who doesn't love her.

Which means… our only option of children is thenaturalway.

A flush creeps down her neck at the same time the thought enters my mind.

I've known for a while now that sleeping with her would ruin something in me, so I placed her at the top of the do-not-fuck list.

Where do I stand now with that?

My legacy is on the line. Legacy is the reason we are sitting in this room. But she is right; she shouldn’t have to put her body through something so drastic. This isn’t just about terms and conditions anymore. It’s about her.

The idea of touching her—of going beyond the kiss at the club—doesn’t sit well with me. But it spreads through my mind in ways it shouldn’t, sliding under my skin and into my dark desires before I can shut it down.

My eyes drag over her relentlessly, catching on the flush in her throat and the slight tremor in her hands.

I imagine owning her body and watching her yield at my touch. The temptation is as enticing as dangling a mouse in front of a lion.

I shove the thought from my mind, but I can see she’s thinking about it, too.

She’s looking at me as ifthisrequest is the term that matters most to her, but she understands how many lines we’ll have to cross.

"Done," I say, putting her out of her misery, but my answer carries more weight than I imagined.

What the hell am I getting myself into?

Thanks, Dad. You’re the real hardass.

Elodie’s cheeks flush, and she looks more taken aback than relieved, but relief comes moments later.

"Is that it?" I ask, steering the conversation back to safer waters.

She fumbles. "Yes. Um… is that it from you? Do you have a date, or something, for when you'll let me know if we're going through with it?"

"Now." I rest my hand on the arm of the chair. "I choose you now."

Her breathing picks up in tandem with the clock on the mantel. “Oh… thanks.” She’s right to sound uncertain because I’m sure she doesn’t fully know what she’s agreeing to, either.

"I'll have my lawyers draft a contract. You'll have it by tomorrow." I finish the scotch and set the glass on the cabinet. "In the meantime, go pack your things. I want you moved in by tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night?"

"Yes. I’ll send people to collect your things."

She opens her mouth, closes it, then stutters. "Okay. I can do that."

"Good.”

"I guess we’re getting married, then.” Poor girl. She doesn't sound that different from a mourner at a funeral.

"We are."

She stands, smooths her coat the same way she did on the porch, and I recognize the gesture now. It's what she used to do when she needed a second to collect herself.