He stood and moved behind me, beginning to untie my wrists with the same methodical approach he'd used to bind them. “Can't have you stuck like this while I clean up.”
The rope loosened, my hands came free, and I brought them forward carefully and flexed my fingers until the feeling returned.
“Stay on the bed,” he said. “I'll be back in a moment.”
His footsteps crossed the room, the en suite door opened, and the sound of the shower started up. I counted ten full seconds before pushing myself upright.
My phone was in my trouser pocket where I'd left it, and the mirroring device was tucked into the hidden compartment in my belt — no bigger than a USB connector, purpose-built for exactly this scenario. I pulled it out, crossed to the nightstand where Harrow's phone was sitting, and pressed my ear to the bathroom door first. He was still humming under his breath. Still washing.
I connected the device to the charging port and watched the screen light up. A progress bar appeared and crept forward at a maddening crawl, filling pixel by pixel while the shower continued to run in the background.
Halfway. More than halfway.
The water shut off.
Thirty seconds, maybe less if he skipped drying off properly. Three quarters of the bar done. Almost there. Sounds filtered through the door — a towel being pulled from a rack, movement against tile — and the bar continued its agonising crawl toward completion.
It filled completely just as the doorknob turned.
I yanked the device free, shoved it into my pocket, set the phone back exactly where it had been on the nightstand, anddropped onto the edge of the bed in one movement, doing my best to look as though I'd been sitting there the whole time.
The door opened. Harrow stepped out with a towel around his waist, his hair damp and his skin still glistening with moisture.
“Feeling steadier?” he asked, moving to the dresser without looking at me.
“Yes, sir.” My voice came out rougher than I'd intended. “I just needed a moment.”
“Understandable.” He pulled out clothes and turned his back to dress, the prosecutor's mask sliding back into place with each item of clothing until by the time he turned to face me again — fully dressed in casual trousers and a shirt, every trace of what had just happened apparently filed and stored — the man who'd licked his own come out of my body had vanished entirely.
“Get dressed,” he said, his tone dismissive and professional now. “And next time you're scheduled to clean, make sure I'm notified in advance. I don't like surprises.”
“Understood, sir.”
I pulled on my clothes with hands that shook only slightly, the adrenaline and physical exertion catching up with me now that the performance was over. The mirroring device sat heavy in my pocket, holding everything I'd come here for.
Harrow moved to his desk and began gathering the papers I'd been searching through earlier, organising them with the same methodical approach he brought to everything. “You can see yourself out,” he said without looking up. “Gerald will be downstairs if you need anything.”
I left, pulled the door closed behind me, and moved down the hallway with measured steps that gave nothing away, even as urgency screamed through every nerve I had. My body ached in ways that would make themselves known more clearly in themorning, and I could still feel him—Harrow's release still warm inside me, Gerald's taste still coating the back of my throat.
Gerald was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression professionally neutral. But his eyes tracked over me slowly, taking in details I couldn't hide—the way my shirt clung to skin that was flushed and damp with sweat, the slight tremor in my legs, the way I was breathing just a fraction too hard for someone who'd supposedly been cleaning.
“Finished already?” he asked, his voice perfectly polite.
“Yes. Mr Harrow was very accommodating.” I kept my voice even despite the rawness in my throat. “Everything's been taken care of.”
“Very good.” Gerald's gaze lingered on my mouth for a beat too long before he turned. “This way, please.”
He didn't lead me back toward the side entrance. Instead, he moved deeper into the house, down a corridor I hadn't seen before, past rooms that were dark and silent. My pulse kicked harder, but I followed—because refusing would raise more questions than complying, and because part of me already knew what was about to happen.
Gerald stopped at a door near the back of the house and opened it, gesturing for me to enter first. “A moment, if you don't mind. There's a matter we should discuss before you leave.”
The room was small—a study or office, lined with bookshelves and dominated by a heavy wooden desk. A single lamp cast warm light across leather furniture that looked expensive and well-used. Gerald closed the door behind us with a quiet click and turned the lock.
The sound of the bolt sliding home made my stomach tighten.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, keeping my tone professional even as my mind raced through exit strategies.
“Not a problem, no.” Gerald moved to stand in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something understated and expensive. His eyes travelled down my body slowly, assessing. “Though I must say, you look rather... disheveled for someone who's been cleaning.”
