I’m left alone against the wall, dress hiked up around my hips, body still trembling with aftershocks, furious at myself for wanting him despite everything.
Chapter Fifteen - Felix
Married life settles into patterns I didn’t anticipate.
Diana and I share meals at the dining table—breakfast at seven, dinner at eight when I’m home from external meetings. We occupy the same bedroom, the same bathroom, the same spaces that used to feel exclusively mine and now carry her presence in ways I notice constantly.
She moves through the house differently than she did as a captive. There’s less overt resistance, fewer attempts to test boundaries that proved immovable.
Except she’s not free either. The dynamic has recalibrated into something I don’t have clean terminology for—wife, asset, obsession, all layered together in ways that complicate operational detachment I used to rely on.
She sits across from me at breakfast reading news on a tablet I approved for her use, limited internet access that routes through security filters. Her dark hair falls loose past her shoulders, and she’s wearing one of the sleep shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, revealing the soft curve of her calves when she shifts position.
I force my attention back to the intelligence report I’m reviewing, aware that I’ve read the same paragraph three times without absorbing content.
“There’s a council dinner next week,” I say without looking up. “You’ll need to attend.”
Diana sets down the tablet slowly. “I’m invited?”
“Yes. Thursday evening. It has a formal dress code, so I’ll have appropriate clothing sent up.”
“I’m capable of choosing my own clothes.”
“I’m aware.” I meet her gaze across the table. “You’ll be introduced as my wife to people whose opinions affect our standing within the organization, though. First impressions matter.”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue further. Small victories in ongoing negotiations that define our marriage.
After breakfast, I leave for a meeting with the financial handlers that runs longer than scheduled.
By the time I return to the estate, it’s past three in the afternoon. I head upstairs to change out of the suit that’s felt restrictive since noon, pushing open the bedroom door without thinking to announce myself.
Diana stands in front of the full-length mirror, wearing only a bra and the bottom half of her underwear. Her back is to me, dark hair swept over one shoulder, and I freeze in the doorway as my brain processes what I’m seeing.
The generous curve of her hips, soft and substantial in a way that makes my hands ache to touch. The indent of her waist before it flares outward again. The smooth expanse of her back, unmarked except for the faint freckles scattered across her shoulders. She’s curvy in ways that translate to weight and softness I’ve been imagining since the hallway at the Whitmore, and seeing her nearly naked obliterates every rational thought.
She notices me in the mirror’s reflection and turns slightly, startled but not scrambling to cover herself immediately. The moment stretches—her eyes meeting mine, awareness crackling between us, neither of us moving.
I don’t move. I stand there cataloging details I have no right to—the way her breasts fill the lace bra almost to overflowing, the soft swell of her stomach, the thickness of herthighs that I want wrapped around my waist with an intensity that’s become physically uncomfortable.
Diana’s breath catches audibly. Color rises in her cheeks, but she still doesn’t cover herself.
“I didn’t realize you were changing,” I manage, voice rougher than intended.
“You didn’t knock.”
“No.” I force myself to turn away, jaw so tight it aches. “I’ll give you privacy.”
I leave before she responds, closing the door behind me and leaning against the hallway wall while I regain control that slipped the moment I saw her. Desire isn’t abstract anymore—it’s constant, immediate, invasive in ways that affect focus I can’t afford to lose.
The image of her standing in front of that mirror burns behind my eyes. I replay it walking to my office, sitting at the desk, attempting to concentrate on work that suddenly feels impossibly distant from what I actually want.
Which is to go back to that bedroom, finish undressing her properly, and memorize every inch of her body with my hands and mouth until she’s trembling beneath me.
The restraint required to avoid doing exactly that costs more than most operational decisions I make.
***
The new wardrobe arrives three days later—designer pieces selected specifically for Diana’s measurements and coloring. Fitted dresses that will showcase her shape rather than hide it, structured coats that suggest elegance and authority, accessories chosen to reflect a captain’s wife rather than a civilian caught in circumstances beyond her control.
