The hospital had called an hour ago. Stable. Critical but stable. A massive blood loss, a surgery Kristen’s mother couldn’t afford, a bill Manuel had already settled from a distance she could feel like a cold hand on her shoulder. Now she stood in the center of the bedroom she’d shared with Eric, her back to him, her arms wrapped tight around herself. The silence was a physical thing, thick and smothering.

“Look at me,” Eric said. His voice was quiet, stripped of its usual cynical edge.

She didn’t turn. “You locked the door.”

“I did.”

“Let me out.”

“No.”

Kristen spun then, the motion sharp. Her blonde hair whipped across her cheek. The bright, performative energy that usually animated her face was gone, replaced by a pale, furious stillness. “I want to see my father.”

“You can’t.”

“He almost died because of you.”

“He almost died because of Laurent,” Eric corrected, his gaze steady. He hadn’t moved from his lean against the doorframe. “Because your father pointed a gun at me. The world isn’t a stage, Kristen. The bullets are real.”

“And you’re the monster he said you were.” Her voice cracked. “Proving him right by locking me in here.”

Eric pushed off the doorframe. He took two steps into the room, his muscular frame blocking the light from the hallway. “I’m not letting you walk into another one of Laurent’s traps. Or your own grief. It’s not safe.”

“I don’t care!” The shout tore out of her, raw. “I hate you. I hate this room. I hate this… gilded cage you and Manuel have built. I want out.”

He was in front of her then, his hand catching her wrist before she could push past. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it was absolute. “Out?” he repeated, his voice dropping. “Where exactly would you go? Back to a hospital waiting room with no protection? Laurent knows who you are. He used you once. He’ll do it again.”

She tried to yank her arm free. He held firm. “Then let me go home with my mother.”

“Your mother is being watched by my people right now to keep her safe. Your home is here. With me.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

“I do.” His eyes, those weary, intelligent eyes, held hers. “Because if you leave me, Kristen, if you walk out that door and try to disappear, your father doesn’t leave that hospital alive. The next complication, the next infection… it will be fatal. Do you understand?”

The air left her lungs. The fight drained from her muscles, leaving a cold, heavy weight. She stared at him, searching for the bluff, the lie. She found only a grim, pragmatic truth. This was the strategist smoothing over chaos. This was the anchor of the empire. Her father’s life, balanced against her obedience.

“You wouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I follow orders,” he said, his thumb moving over the frantic pulse in her wrist. “And my order is to keep you. At any cost.”

Her resistance didn’t vanish. It turned inward, a slow collapse. Her shoulders slumped. The tears she’d been fighting spilled over, silent tracks through her pallor. Eric watched them fall. He didn’t wipe them away. He used his grip on her wrist to pull her closer, until her forehead rested against his chest. She didn’t embrace him. She just stood there, broken, breathing in the scent of him—clean cotton and something darker, like gunmetal and regret.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice vibrating through her. “Just stop.”

His other hand came up, fingers sliding into her hair. It wasn’t a gentle gesture. It was possession. He tilted her face up. Her eyes were wide, wet, lost. He studied her for a long moment, then bent and kissed her.

It wasn’t the forceful kiss from the library. This was slow. Deliberate. His mouth was warm and insistent, moving over hers with a patience that felt more dangerous than anger. She kept her lips sealed, her body rigid. A statue in his arms.

He didn’t force. He lingered. His tongue traced the seam of her mouth. His hand in her hair tightened just enough to make her gasp. He took the opening, deepening the kiss, and she felt the first treacherous spark in her belly. A traitorous heat. She made a small, broken sound against his mouth.

Eric broke the kiss, his breathing slightly ragged. He looked down at her flushed face, her parted lips. “You can hate me,” he said, his voice rough. “Hate me all you want. But you’re mine.”

He walked her backward toward the bed. Her legs hit the edge of the mattress and she sat, looking up at him. He reached for the hem of his shirt, pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. The disciplined strength of his torso was on display—the cut of his abdomen, the defined lines of his chest. In the low light, old scars whispered of a history she didn’t know.

Her gaze dropped. The front of his trousers was strained, the outline of his erection clear and thick against the dark fabric. Her mouth went dry. She’d seen him aroused before, felt him, but this was different. This was a demand. A fact.

“Look at me,” he said again, kneeling on the floor between her knees.

She forced her eyes up to his. He held her gaze as his hands went to the waistband of her leggings. He hooked his fingers in the fabric and her underwear beneath, and pulled them down in one slow, continuous motion. The cool air hit her skin. He tossed the clothing aside.

He didn’t touch her yet. He just looked. Her breath hitched. She felt exposed, vulnerable, the heat between her legs a secret she couldn’t hide. She was wet. She knew it. The anger, the fear, the terrible pull of him—it had all conspired against her.

Eric saw it. A dark, satisfied flicker in his eyes. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee. His beard scraped her sensitive skin. She flinched.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his lips moving up her thigh.

“I’m cold.”

“You’re not.”

His mouth reached the apex of her thighs. He didn’t use his tongue. He just breathed her in, hot and damp against her core. A low groan escaped him, purely male, purely hungry. The sound went straight through her, pooling liquid heat in her belly.

“Eric,” she whispered, a plea or a protest, she didn’t know.

He ignored her. His hands slid under her thighs, lifting her, opening her wider. He held her there, utterly displayed. Then he lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue was a lightning strike. Precise. Devastating. She cried out, her hands flying to fist in his hair. He didn’t let her pull away. He settled in, his mouth a ruthless, knowing instrument. He licked into her, slow and deep, then focused on the aching center of her pleasure. The rhythm was relentless, building a pressure that made her thighs tremble in his grip.

She hated it. She hated how her body arched off the bed, how a moan was torn from her throat. She hated the coil tightening low in her stomach, the inevitable, betraying climb. She tried to fight it, clenching her teeth, but her hips began to move against his mouth of their own volition, seeking more.

He felt her surrender. One of his hands left her thigh, his fingers sliding inside her with ease. She was soaked. The stretch, the fullness, combined with the wicked flick of his tongue, pushed her to the edge. Her breaths became ragged sobs. The world narrowed to the feeling he was orchestrating, a crescendo she couldn’t stop.

“Please,” she gasped, not knowing what she was asking for.

He pulled his mouth away, his chin glistening. His eyes, dark with want, locked on hers. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Then I’m going to fuck you. And you’re going to remember who you belong to.”

He replaced his mouth, sucking hard, his fingers curling inside her. The orgasm shattered through her, violent and overwhelming. White light flashed behind her eyelids. Her back bowed off the bed, a silent scream on her lips as the waves tore through her, leaving her limp and shuddering.

Before the last tremor had faded, Eric was moving. He stood, fumbling with his belt, his eyes never leaving her wrecked form on the bed. He freed himself, his cock springing free, thick and painfully hard. He gripped himself, stroking once, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.

He climbed onto the bed, settling his weight between her legs. He nudged at her entrance, still slick and pulsing from her climax. The broad head pressed against her. He paused there, breathing heavily, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

“Look at me,” he breathed, his face inches from hers.

Her eyes, blurred with spent pleasure and unshed tears, focused on his. In his gaze, she saw the weary strategist, the loyal lieutenant, and the man who had just made a prison of her body and called it keeping her.

He pushed inside.