The library clock ticked past the hour. Liam closed the final ledger with a definitive snap. For a full minute, the only sound was the fire dying in the grate. He hadn’t looked at her once.
Then he moved.
It wasn’t graceful—just efficient. His chair scraped. His hand shot out, fingers locking around her wrist. The grip was iron, a brand of heat against her skin. He hauled her upright without a word.
“Liam—”
He was already moving, dragging her behind him. His stride was long, punishing—through the study door, into the grand hall. Cold air bit through her blouse. She stumbled, her shoes clicking a frantic rhythm against the stone as she struggled to keep up.
He didn’t speak until they reached his bedroom. He shoved the door open, dragged her inside, and kicked it shut. The echo rang sharply. Only then did he release her. Faint red marks bloomed where his fingers had been.
“The uniform,” he said, his voice a low, irrevocable baritone. “Off.”
He was already stripping, movements sharp, unconcerned with ceremony. His jacket hit a chair. His tie fell in a loose snake of silk. Her fingers fumbled with the cheap buttons of her blouse, her breath quick and shallow. The room felt different than hers—colder, darker, smelling of him. Cedar and something faintly metallic.
They met in the middle of the room, bare skin against bare skin. The shock of it was a gasp she swallowed. His hands were everywhere, mapping her as if reclaiming territory. His mouth was hot and demanding on hers, his tongue a blunt possession. She clutched at his shoulders, the hard planes of muscle under her palms.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the massive bed. She fell onto the cool duvet, and he came down over her, his weight pinning her in the best way. His cock, hard and heavy, pressed against her thigh. He rocked against her, the friction a rough, maddening promise.
“I’ll train you today,” he breathed against her lips, his hips stilling.
Train me? What was that supposed to mean? Though the words still somehow made something deep in her stomach warm
She couldn’t keep her thoughts focused as he kissed down her jaw, her throat, his teeth scraping her collarbone. One hand slid between her legs. He found her wet, so wet, and he made a low, approving sound. His fingers parted her, traced her slick heat, and circled her clit with a torturous, precise pressure.
Her back arched. A broken sound escaped her. She was already so close, the tension coiling tight and desperate in her belly.
His thumb pressed down, firm, and her hips jerked. “Not yet.” His voice was a rumble against her breast before he took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. The dual sensation—the sharp pull, the relentless circling below—drove a white-hot wire of need straight through her core.
She was trembling, her breath shallow pants. The orgasm gathered, a storm threatening to break.
He lifted his head. His blue eyes were dark, fathomless. He watched her face as his fingers continued their ruthless work. “My Order: You don’t come until I tell you to cum. Do you understand?”
She nodded, frantic, her nails digging into his biceps.
“Say it.”
“I don’t… I don’t cum until you say it, Sir.”
He rewarded her with a deeper stroke of his fingers, curling inside her, and she cried out, her body bowing. The edge was right there. She hovered, dizzy, her vision sparking. He held her there, perfectly still, letting her feel the unbearable tension without release.
A shrill, electronic ring shattered the moment.
Her flip phone was discarded in her uniform pocket on the floor. The cheerful, tinny melody was violently out of place. Lisa’s ringtone.
Elena froze. Liam didn’t. A slow, dangerous smile touched his mouth. He withdrew his hand slowly, making her gasp at the sudden emptiness.
“I need to answer it,” she said.
She scrambled off the bed, legs unsteady, and snatched the phone from the pile of clothes. She flipped it open, putting a frantic finger to her lips, her eyes wide and pleading.
“Oh… No, you didn’t…” Liam let out with the lowest whisper, his expression one of dark amusement.
“Hello?” Elena’s voice was too high, too breathy.
“Elena! Oh my god, guess what?” Lisa’s voice was a bubbly explosion in the quiet room.
Before Elena could form a word, Liam moved. He grabbed Elena’s arm and lifted her back onto the bed. She let out a little yelp!
He rolled her onto her back and hooked his hands behind her legs. He looked up at her, that smirk still playing on his lips, and then he lowered his head. She looked back at him wide-eyed.
His tongue, broad and hot, licked a slow, wet stripe through her folds.
A sharp, choked gasp ripped from Elena’s throat. She slapped her free hand over her mouth.
“You okay? You sound weird,” Lisa said.
“Fine!” Elena squeaked, her body rigid. Liam’s mouth was on her again, his tongue circling her clit with deliberate, devastating skill. Her free hand flew to his hair, gripping it, not sure whether to push him away or pull him closer. “Just… surprised to hear from you.”
“Well, you know I’m full of surprises! I booked the train. Remember, I'm coming this Friday!”
Liam sucked. Hard. She bit down on her knuckle to stifle a moan. Her hips twitched forward, seeking more of that wicked, perfect pressure. “Friday. Yes. Friday is still… good.”
“You’re sure? You sound… stressed. Is the rich asshole working you to death?”
Liam’s tongue delved deeper, fucking her with it, the wet, intimate sound obscenely loud to her ears. Her thighs trembled around his head. Pleasure, sharp and electric, shot up her spine. She was panting into the phone, struggling to form words. “N-no. It’s… It’s fine. Just busy.”
“Okay, well, I’ll text you the details. I’m so excited to see you! We are going to drink so much wine!”
“Can’t wait,” Elena forced out, the words strangled. Liam had focused entirely on her clit again, his tongue a relentless, fluttering point of fire. The coiled tension from before snapped back, twice as fierce, a live wire sparking in her gut. She was right back on that razor’s edge, teetering.
“Love you, bye!”
The line went dead. Elena let the phone fall from her ear. It fell onto the bed.
The distraction vanished. All that existed was the sensation—the hot, wet, devouring mastery of his mouth. The orgasm he’d denied her earlier roared back, immense and immediate, crashing through the last of her control.
Her head fell back. A raw, ragged sob tore from her throat. “Liam—I can’t—I’m going to—”
He pulled back, just a fraction. His breath was hot on her soaked skin. His blue eyes locked on hers, gleaming in the dim light. He didn’t say a word. Just waited.
Tears of desperation pricked her eyes. The peak was here, now, a seismic wave about to break her apart. She was shaking with the effort of holding it back. “Please,” she begged, her voice shattered. “Please, let me cum.”
“Cum,” he commanded, and with that small permission, the dam inside her finally gave way, flooding her senses.
The release tore through her in waves, breaking her apart, pulling a shattered cry from her throat as her body arched beneath him. Her fingers clutched at him, grounding herself in something solid as everything else dissolved.
He didn’t pull away.
The world narrowed to breath and heat and the steady rhythm he set, carrying her through it—through all of it—until the sharp edges softened and the intensity blurred into something slower, deeper.
And still, he didn’t stop.
His hand rests on the curve of her waist, gentle and resting. The sweat on their skin has cooled. The only sound is the slow, shared rhythm of their breathing, and the distant settling of the old house around them.
“You don’t talk much about your family,” Elena spoke up. Looking at Liam.
He froze for a moment, then the tension released. Liam’s fingers trace an idle circle on her hip. The gesture feels absent, as if a man were lost in thought and memory. “My mother sang,” he says, the words low. “Old folk songs. In Italian with her sister. She had an amazing voice.” He pauses. “My father would sit and listen for hours.”
Elena turns her head on the pillow to look at him. She got an idea from the journals about the relationship between his mother and aunt. They always seemed to be around. His profile is sharp against the dim light, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. She sees his throat work. “Tell me more about them,” she whispers.
The image is so fragile, so at odds with the ruthless figure she knows, that it makes her chest ache. She slides her hand over his, lacing their fingers together on her stomach. His grip tightens, almost painful, before easing into a hold.
“My mother made ceramic birds,” Elena says, her voice hoarse. The words come unbidden, floating up from the aftermath. “They were honestly horrible, lopsided things, but she loved trying. She would give them as gifts. Though I’m certain some people would display just when they knew we were going to visit, as I could tell they never kept them in those spots, and they were not usually there when we stopped by unannounced. I don’t think my mama ever noticed.”
Liam’s hand stills for a second, then resumes its slow path. “My father collected antique pistols. He’d clean them at the dining table. My mother hated the smell of the oil.”
“Was he a great man?” Elena said softly, her hand now lying against his chest.
“I don’t know if I would call him great. He was a hard man. Cold and direct. Always commanded and controlled everything around him. Except her.” Liam’s jaw tightens. “He loved her so much, and it showed. He’d bring her a single rose every Friday from the garden. Even in winter, he’d find one from the greenhouse. He’d put it in a vase by her bedside without a word.”
She turns her head to look at him. His face is relaxed, the hard lines softened in the dim light. He was telling her about his father, a topic he usually avoided. “What about your father’s work?” she whispers.
He’s quiet for a long moment; she could tell he was thinking through his words. “My father built the company from the ground up. Focusing on managing imports and exports. Growing the docks. Finding that previous leaders were abusive, cruel, or incapable of working under them. So he pushed his way to the top. He worked hard and used precise conviction to claim what he felt was his. Now… I’m simply the heir. I took it over once he died, and I’ve never felt I can fill his shoes.”
She paused for a moment, trying to take it in and piece the puzzle together. Her silence stayed.
He continued. “There was a walled garden. My mother’s. She grew night-blooming jasmine. The scent would come in through my window. On summer nights, I’d pretend it was a spell to keep the bad dreams out.” His thumb traces her jaw. “It never worked.”
“What happened to that wall?” I asked, not recalling seeing one on the grounds.
“A storm came through and damaged it shortly after her passing. I couldn’t bear to see the look of it. I tore it down.” He said with sadness in his voice.
The conversation continued to flow. Elena shared stories of how her Dad was always goofy with her and her brother. She shared the memories of them playing pool in the garage, and how he was always there to help her with her homework and make sure they did well. “My father is an amazing man…” Her voice trailed off, “I miss him.”
The thought of her family, and how they had barely even talked in so long, caused a pain in her chest.
Liam flinched as he looked at her. He had noticed her sorrow.
“I hope to meet them one day. They sound like amazing parents.” He said as he pulled her closer.
The conversation drifts easily, moving from hobbies to favorite interests, brushing lightly over work before wandering somewhere else entirely. Hours seem to pass without either of them noticing, the quiet space between topics never quite empty.
During their conversation, Liam had ordered dinner to the room—steak, potatoes, and a brutal red wine. They eat naked, cross-legged on the bed, the tray between them. He feeds her a piece of his steak, his fingers brushing her lips. She can’t keep her eyes off him. Watching him chew. She watches his throat work. This intimacy is a different kind of possession, quieter, more disarming. After, he pulls her into the crook of his arm, her back to his chest, and they watch the fire die in the grate. His breath evens out against her hair. She sleeps more deeply than she has in weeks.
Thursday morning arrives with grey light and the smell of coffee. Liam is already up, shaved, and dressed in another impeccable suit, his attire back in place. But his hand lingers on her shoulder when he wakes her. She dressed separately, the work uniform laid out for her, and she took her pill, now a part of her new morning routine. In his study, the distance is there, palpable. He issues orders, she takes notes, the scratch of her pen the only sound for an hour.
Then his hand covers hers on the desk, stopping her writing. “The figures on the import ledger,” he says, his voice all business. “Add a column for projected tariffs under the new legislation.” His thumb strokes the inside of her wrist. “Assume a fifteen percent increase.”
By afternoon, the flirting is a low current under the work. A brush of his thigh against hers as he leans over to point at a clause. The deliberate way he says “Elena” in that low baritone, turning her name into a command and a caress. She feels his eyes on her when she bends to retrieve a dropped file. The air thickens.
The clock chimes five. He closes a ledger with a definitive thump. “Enough.” He rises, circles the desk, and pulls her up by her elbows. His mouth finds hers, not gentle, a reclamation. His hands slide down to her backside, gripping, pulling her hard against the evident ridge of his erection. “I’m going to take you right here on this desk,” he murmurs against her lips, his voice rough with intent.
She gasps, the sudden heat of him a dizzying contrast to the hours of cool focus. Her body sparks in response, a deep, answering throb. But the ache between her thighs is a sore, sweet reminder of the night before, of the morning in the shower he’d denied. “Liam.” She breaks the kiss, panting. “I’m… I’m sore. I need a little rest and I…” She cuts off, blushing. “I’m due to start my period today.”
He stills, his gaze searching her face.
She sees the conflict—the possessiveness, the want, warring with something else. She presses her advantage, a whisper. “Lisa comes tomorrow. I want to be… prepared for her visit.”
For a long moment, he just holds her there, pressed against him. Then, slowly, his grip loosens. He releases a breath, a faint, almost imperceptible surrender. He smooths a wrinkle from the shoulder of her uniform, a gesture strangely tender. “You are right, another time then,” he says, the promise heavy in the quiet room.
Liam’s hand fell from her shoulder. He gave a single, light kiss, then turned back to his desk. Elena walked from the study on legs that felt unsteady; the ghost of the next time continued to heat her core. The manor halls were silent tombs, her footsteps the only sound echoing off the cold stone.
Her room was as she’d left it that morning: the bed neatly made by unseen hands, the faint scent of lemon polish hanging in the air. A different kind of emptiness lived here. She stripped off the maid’s uniform, the crisp cotton scraping against her sensitized skin. Her body ached in a deep, specific way. Between her thighs was a tender, swollen reminder. The inside of her wrists felt the memory of his thumb stroking there. She stood naked for a long minute, just breathing, feeling the cool air raise goosebumps on her flushed skin.
The act of straightening the already-straight room began. She plumped pillows that didn’t need it. Aligned the art supplies Presley had given her into rigid, color-coded rows on the desk. She wiped a nonexistent speck of dust from the nightstand, her movements sharp, mechanical. Every smoothed sheet, every adjusted curtain felt like building a tiny wall against the chaos of him.
Her phone buzzed on the mattress. Lisa’s name glowed on the screen, a flare of normal life in the gloom. The flight landed early! I got the train ticket adjusted to an earlier time, too. Should be at your fancy prison by like 12:30 tomorrow. Prepare the wine and warden. A winking emoji followed.
Elena’s thumbs hovered. She typed, deleted, typed again. Can’t wait. I’ll meet you at the front gate. She hit send before she could overthink it.
Ooo, mysterious. Do I need a password to get in now? A secret handshake? Lisa replied instantly.
Just your ID, like before. And maybe a blood oath. Elena typed back, a faint, real smile touching her lips. She always loved how light and cheerful Lisa was.
I knew it! This is a cult! You’ve joined a hot, rich-people cult. Do they have robes? Tell me there are robes.
The back-and-forth continued, a rapid-fire volley of dumb jokes and excited planning. Lisa’s cheer was a broadcast from another planet, all sunlight and noise. Elena typed about wine brands and whether Lisa wanted to do, finally feeling at peace, as she hadn’t felt since her arrival.
She set the phone down. She had done everything she could to prepare a space for her friend, but the room wasn’t the problem. She was. She had no idea if she should tell Lisa about her and Liam. She walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold glass. The grounds were still, twilight bleeding the color from the world.
This was supposed to be a business arrangement. So how did she explain that it no longer felt like one?
The truth was, she didn’t even have a name for it. What were they now—were they anything at all?
Elena peeled herself from the cold glass. She removed her uniform, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. She slipped on soft leggings and an old college sweatshirt, the faded fabric a small reminder of a long-ago history of herself that no longer existed.
She retrieved her charcoal and paper from the desk. Placing the materials on the floor, she spread out, lying down on her stomach on the rug. Today, she wanted to see her best friend. She drew Lisa’s laughing face, the playful glint in her eye, the streak of pink in her black hair. Her hand moved with a fierce, possessive focus, capturing the uncomplicated joy she needed to remember. The charcoal dust coated her fingertips, smudged her wrist, a tangible proof of creation in this place of consumption.
A sharp knock at the door fractured her spiral of thought. She quickly moved to cover up the picture of Lisa under some of the blank pages.
“Come in,” she said, the handle turned in response.
Liam stepped through the doorway, his suit jacket gone, shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms. “Elena, I was going to ask if you wanted to join me for dinner.”
Accepting, he led her to the dining room where a single place setting glimmered under a chandelier’s cold fire at the long, ancient table. He held her chair, the gesture smooth and automatic, then took the seat at the head, leaving a meter of polished oak between them. A server brought wine, poured, and vanished into the shadows.
She cut into her roast, watching it almost melt under her cut. “Where did you go? For work.” Her voice sounded too loud in the hollow space.
Liam sipped his wine, his eyes on the dark liquid. “Meetings. In the city. Had to follow up with one of the business owners who works for me.” He set the glass down with a precise click. “Boring details. Mostly trying to pass along information. Paperwork. Agreements. Nothing you’d find interesting.”
“You keep saying that.” She knew she should let it go. It was always like this. A half-answer. A softened edge. Then the door—quietly, firmly shut.
But tonight, something in her refused to back down.
“What kind of information?” The question left her before she could curb it. She watched his fingers tighten, just slightly, around the stem of his glass. His evasion was a wall she’d run into before, but tonight it felt different—not just secret, but dangerous.
He watched her over the rim of his glass, the firelight catching the icy calculation in his blue eyes. “Operational security,” he said, the words flat and final. “It keeps people alive. That’s all you need to know.”
Elena set her fork down. The clink against the china was too sharp. “You keep saying that. That I don’t need to know…” He kept drawing the line for her—and expecting her not to notice. It’s not a need. It’s a want. I’m sitting in this house. I’m taking your pills and lying in your bed. But what is this world? What is he hiding? What did I walk into? Her knuckles were white where she gripped the table’s edge.
Liam leaned back, the picture of relaxed power, but his jaw was a hard line. “I’m simply handling business, Elena. The specifics of my business don’t concern you.” His voice grew stern and tough; he swirled his wine, his gaze dropping to the dark vortex.
The air remained chilled in the silence that followed. He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for his wine, took a slow sip—buying time. Choosing his next move.
“What was your favorite meal?” he cut in, his voice slicing through the silence, trying to bring back a normal tone. He looked up, his expression shifting into something softer. “What did you eat that made you happy?”
The pivot was so violent it left her breathless for a moment. He stayed still and waited, his face perfect. The question was forcing her to think. Try to remember not only her life here with him, but her life before. Ok, she would accept this turn…
She took a moment to think.
She thought of the Turkey dinners she would have at home. How flavorful her dad could make the stuffing from scratch. Something she focused to learn to make as well. The feeling is warm and comforting.
She thought about the rich meals served here in the manor, and how delicious they always were, made by someone she was sure loved their work.
The warmth of memory curdled in her throat. It wasn't just the turkey, the stuffing, the comfortable fiction of a happy past he was trying to lure her into. It was the warmth of his room, the shared meal they had there. And the dinner. The long table. The same suffocating quiet. Then the thought rose. The man who seemed to be everywhere. The one who interrupted her dinner with Liam. Took away his parents. Killed Iredessa.
It wasn’t just a coincidence anymore. The same name. Circling him—circling her. Somehow, they were all connected. And she was the only one who didn’t know how.
She looked at him, at the perfect, waiting mask of his face. The firelight carved the planes of his cheeks, shadowed the blue of his eyes. He wanted her compliant, nostalgic, soft. He wanted her to follow him into a sanitized version of her own history. Her jaw tightened. She wouldn’t.
She looked at him—really looked this time. Past the charm. Past the control.
At the man who kept deciding what she was allowed to know.
“Who is Xander Stern?”
With that question, the entire room went still and silent.