Hate burned hotter than indifference. Hate meant she felt something when she looked at me, thought about me, imagined what the next six months would demand.
And beneath that hate, buried so deep she probably didn't recognize it yet?—
Want.
I'd seen it flicker across her face when I'd promised to make her scream. When I'd told her exactly how I'd take her apart.
Her pupils had dilated. Her breathing had changed. Her body had betrayed what her mouth refused to admit.
I exhaled slowly, forcing control back into muscles that wanted nothing more than to storm upstairs and claim what was already mine by contract.
Not yet.
Patience.
Discipline.
The same traits that made me lethal on ice would serve me better here.
I checked my watch again.
Time.
I straightened, rolled my shoulders, and headed for the stairs.
Soon, I'd have her across from me at dinner, furious and trapped and desperately pretending this was survivable.
And after that?
After that, I'd have her in my bed.
Close enough to smell. To hear. To remind her with every breath that privacy had ended the moment she'd signed her name.
My cock pulsed in agreement.
Soon.
Chapter 9
Belle
I didn't go downstairs.
The house breathed around me—pipes settling, rain drumming against glass, the soft hum of central heating I hadn't earned and didn't want.
Below, movement. Deliberate. Unhurried. The clink of plates being set down. Cutlery arranged with the precision of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. A chair scraped against hardwood.
Then—nothing.
He was waiting.
I sat on the edge of the bed, still dressed in what I'd worn when I signed my life away. Jeans. Sweater. Boots I hadn't bothered unlacing.
My suitcase remained by the door, untouched.
A pathetic act of rebellion I knew meant nothing.
If I didn't unpack, I hadn't moved in. If I didn't shower, I hadn't made myself comfortable. If I didn't go downstairs, I hadn't agreed to this.
