Page 10

I watch him from the edge of the bed as he walks to the dresser.

His broad shoulders are tense.

His movements are too controlled.

Like if he lets himself slip for even a second, he might come undone.

Balor pulls open a drawer and grabs a white undershirt, soft and worn, the kind of thing I imagine he sleeps in— or used to, before I turned his night upside down.

I stand and walk toward him, slowly, carefully, like I’m approaching a live wire.

He doesn’t move as I reach for the shirt in his hands, our fingers brushing. Electricity zings between us, sharp and undeniable.

His eyes meet mine, stormy and at odds with each other, one so verdant and the other glittering like the night sky— breathtaking .

But he doesn’t speak.

I clutch the shirt to my chest and take a breath.

“There’s a hidden zipper under my arm,” I murmur, my voice softer than I mean for it to be. “Can you?”

Balor blinks. He barely nods.

Then he steps into my space.

His fingers find the zipper with a precision that makes me shiver. Slow, sure, dragging it down until the dress loosens around my torso.

I hold it in place with one hand and turn to face him.

He goes still. Completely, utterly still.

My breath hitches in my throat. My heart is beating a million times per minute.

And then I let it go .

The dress slips off me like a secret, pooling at my feet in a whisper of silk.

And just like that, I’m exposed.

Standing in the center of his room, under his gaze, like some kind of offering.

My skin prickles. Not from cold— but from awareness. From him.

Balor Cruz doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches me.

And that stare? God, it feels like hands. Big, warm, possessive hands, dragging over every inch of me without ever touching.

I’m not wearing a bra.

No panties, either.

Just these glittering stockings that cling to my legs and cut off high at my hips, leaving nothing to the imagination.

My breasts are full— too big to defy gravity —but lifted just enough by the curve of my spine, the tension in my shoulders, the sheer audacity of standing here like this. Nipples drawn tight and dusky pink.

His eyes catch on them, then drop lower.

Right to that thin strip of dark hair I leave just above my pussy, visible through the sheer silk. A deliberate choice.

One I made years ago. Long before I knew tonight would end like this.

Maybe I was hoping. Maybe I was aching for him even then.

But now?

Now I’m frozen.

My heart hammers in my chest, breath catching in my throat as the silence stretches.

Because the last time I stood close to this man and offered him my body, he rejected me.

He said no.

And sure, I can rationalize it a thousand ways— he was trying to be noble, trying not to fuck the boss’s daughter, trying to keep boundaries.

But here I am again.

Bare.

Vulnerable.

Desperate.

And suddenly, the weight of every judgment I’ve ever heard, every photo dissected by gossip blogs and tabloid rags, presses in on me.

They call me a modern pin-up girl.

Code for curvy but still fuckable.

They say I’m big-boned.

Code for fat in a way that’s trendy but still up for debate.

And Balor? He’s perfect.

Ruthless and lethal and stupidly, sinfully hot.

Covered in tattoos and muscles and darkness that hum beneath the surface.

What if I’m not enough?

What if he’s just looking at me out of curiosity?

What if this is pity?

What if he doesn’t want me—not really—but feels obligated because of what I went through?

What if my size sixteen body, my thick thighs and soft belly and untamed heart, are too much for him?

Too much? Or not enough?

I feel it rising in my throat— shame, doubt, the old insecurity I’ve learned to wear like armor but never fully escaped.

I want to look away.

I want to cover myself.

But I don’t.

Because something in his expression shifts.

His gaze darkens— not with disgust or hesitation —but with hunger.

His body tenses like a predator on the edge of pouncing.

And in that moment, I swear I feel it. That invisible thread between us, pulled taut, humming with heat and something so much deeper than lust.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

And suddenly I don’t feel self-conscious anymore.

I feel powerful.

Because this man— the one who owns his power quietly, who scares the shit out of everyone else with a single look —is right now, completely undone by the sight of me.

So maybe I am enough. Maybe tonight I can finally have the one thing I’ve wanted for so long.

Him.

Please let me be enough for him just for tonight.

His breath hitches.

His chest rises once. Twice. Then again, faster, deeper.

And then I hear it.

A low sound.

A rumble from deep inside him— like something feral clawing its way to the surface.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But I feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

I pull the shirt over my head slowly, letting the cotton fall against my bare skin. It smells like him— clean and masculine and electric.

I don’t break eye contact.

Well, only once, when the shirt covers my face.

But then I watch him as I reach beneath the hem and drag the stockings down my legs at the same time.

I step out of them and lift them with my foot.

Balor reaches for them first, and I let him.

There’s a charged silence between us, thick with everything we’re not saying.

I’m not trying to tease him.

I’m offering myself.

Not just my body.

All of me.

And I’m waiting to see if he’s finally ready to take what I’ve always known he wanted.

What I want.

Him. Only him.

Because if he doesn’t want me after this, tomorrow I’ll leave— I swear I’ll go away and bury my head in the sand for a while, lick my wounds in privacy, maybe on a beach somewhere —and I will never darken his door again.

But I have to know—it’s truth time now.

Does he want me like I want him?