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He pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, bringing that damn presence with him. It was like trying to hold your ground against a storm. She hated how her pulse reacted, hated how her stomach flipped—hated the way her traitorous body warmed at the sound of his steps.

“You’re here,” he said, calm and infuriating, “because you owe a debt. And I bought it. I could’ve let them have you—locked away, forgotten. But I didn’t.” He took a slow step closer, voice dropping. “You passed out in the street. I brought you here. Safe. You want the truth?” His gaze swept over her, the heat unmistakable. “I didn’t enjoy seeing you that way—half-conscious and running on fumes. I wanted to strip you down and take care of you, but I let you sleep. Clothes on. Boots off. A blanket instead of my arms. You should thank me.”

Her mouth opened. Shut. “Don't hold your breath. Wait... you what?”

“That job in Dubai? The one that went sideways? Someone compromised you. They knew it was you and where you were. They would have put you in a tiny, very dark room for the rest of your very short life. Con had placed you under my protection, so I bought you out of it. You belong to me now.”

She stared at him, blood pounding. “So what now? I’m your possession?” Her voice crackled with fury and disbelief. “You think slapping down some money means you get to own me like a damn prize horse?”

“No. But the people who held your debt didn’t see it that way. I gave them what they wanted and assured them you wouldn'tbe a problem in the future. You’re under my roof. My protection. My rules.”

He stepped closer. She didn’t shrink back—still seated upright in his bed, covers bunched in her fists—because she knew that’s exactly what he expected. His eyes locked on hers, full of dark challenge and control, daring her to flinch, to yield. The dominance rolled off him like heat, thick enough to taste.

“And if I refuse?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, lingering like a caress. "You won't," he said, voice low and confident. "Because your body already made the decision your pride won't admit. You're still in my bed, sweetheart—and if you were really planning to walk, you'd already be gone. But you're not. You're here. And whether or not you like it, you still want to know what it feels like to break under me."

“You’re awfully sure of yourself.” Her voice was sharp, but her insides curled traitorously. She hated he might be right—that some part of her did still want what he offered, even if everything logical screamed at her to run. The heat in his gaze was like a match struck too close to dry kindling, and she was terrified how easily she might burn.

“I know you. And I know you’re smart enough not to walk back into the mess I just pulled you out of.”

Her jaw ached from clenching. Her mind screamed at her not to engage—not to fall back into the gravity of him—but her curiosity, her need for answers, overrode logic. “What exactly do your rules entail?”

“You stay. You work. You don’t run. You check in with me. You don’t lie. And if you’re going to sass me, you’d better mean it and expect consequences for it.”

“I always mean it,” she snapped, fingers tightening in the blanket pooled around her lap.

His grin was lazy. Dangerous. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

“I want a shower. And coffee. In that order.”

He moved aside, motioned toward the door that led to the attached bath. “Right through there. Coffee will be ready when you are.”

She threw back the covers and rose, spine straightening as she moved with slow, deliberate steps. Padding barefoot across the cool floor, she passed him, brushing his shoulder on purpose—more defiance than accident. “This isn’t over, O’Neill,” she muttered, not bothering to look back as she disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom.

His voice followed her, dark silk laced with steel. “No, Keira. It’s just beginning.”

She shut the bathroom door with a little more force than necessary, and leaned against it, heart hammering. The worst part wasn’t that he’d brought her here. It wasn’t even that he’d made some kind of deal to extricate her from a job gone sideways and put her in his debt.

It was that some treacherous part of her had breathed easier the second she knew it was his voice in the bedroom and not someone else's. The way her body had responded to his presence like no time had passed, like her dignity wasn’t supposed to matter. That’s what shook her. That’s what scared her most of all.

Her skin still remembered the heat of his body—the press of him behind her, his breath skating over her neck, his hands gripping her hips like they were meant to fit there. Her mouth remembered the shape of his name not just as sound, but as plea, as surrender, whispered into dark rooms and buried in fevered kisses. And that wasn’t okay.

Not when she couldn’t trust him... and not when she couldn’t trust herself.

She headed into the kitchen a while later, towel-dried curls loose around her shoulders, her body wrapped in borrowed softness—a shirt of his, because of course the asshole had not left her anything else to wear in the meantime.

The shirt smelled like him—dark spice, heat, and something sharp beneath, like danger wrapped in silk. The scent curled around her like a noose, tightening with every breath, dragging memories she wasn’t ready to face. Her stomach knotted, chest tight as the fabric clung to her skin like an echo of his hands.

It shouldn’t have made her feel safe. It shouldn’t have made her ache.

He stood at the stove, barefoot and casual, flipping something in a pan like he wasn’t the devil incarnate. The scent of sizzling butter and eggs mingled with the dark spice of his cologne, making it hard to breathe. The domesticity would’ve been disarming if it hadn’t been for him—another layer to the illusion. Finn O’Neill, master of comfort and chaos, dishing out breakfast with the same hands that could break a man. The man was lethal, even when he cooked—especially when he cooked.

He didn’t turn around. “Coffee’s on the counter. Eggs?”

“I’m not staying.”

“You’re staying.”