I move.
I step directly into her path, calm as stone.
She collides with me and immediately shoves at my chest, trembling hands striking uselessly against muscle and fabric. “Get out of my way,” she snaps, breath uneven. “Move.”
I catch her wrists.
Not harshly. Not violently.
Firm enough that she stills instantly.
The contact lands like a shockwave.
Her pulse hammers beneath my fingers—fast, frantic, undeniable. Her breath breaks, hitching sharply in her throat. I feel it. All of it. The heat of her skin. The tension coiled through her arms. The way her body reacts before her pride catches up.
I don’t release her.
I should.
I don’t.
For one suspended moment, I hold her there, as if my hands are committing her to memory. As if letting go might erase something I don’t yet have words for.
She glares up at me, fury blazing in her eyes—but she doesn’t pull away fast enough.
Neither of us moves.
The air between us tightens, charged with something neither strategy nor reason can dissolve.
“Let go,” she says, but her voice isn’t as steady as she wants it to be.
I lean down just enough that she has to feel my presence, not touching anything else, not invading further—just close enough to make the line unmistakable.
“You don’t storm through my house,” I say quietly, “without permission.”
Her chin lifts, defiant even now. “I’m not your pet. You don’t order me around.”
My gaze drops to her lips, and my grip tightens a fraction before I finally release her, stepping back and allowing the space to return—knowing full well the damage has already been done.
Because now she knows there’s an attraction.
And worse—so do I.
“You should prepare yourself,” I say calmly. “For what’s coming.”
She scoffs, but I see the flicker behind it.
“Your father’s fragments are resurfacing,” I continue. “Rival syndicates already know. Men who don’t negotiate. Men who don’t keep guests.”
Her mouth opens, ready with denial, but the color drains from her face anyway.
“You can rage all you want,” I say evenly. “You’re here because the alternative is torture. Or death.”
“I don’t believe you,” she snaps.
But her eyes betray her.
Terror lives there, thinly veiled beneath stubbornness and fury. She believes me just enough to be afraid—and that internal fracture is where the truth settles.