Page 5

Her jaw drops, her disbelief turning into something hotter, darker. “ And the fucking bathroom ? Are you serious?”

“My access extends to areas where you’re most vulnerable.”

Her voice cracks. “You’re violating me.”

I take a slow sip of coffee before replying, “I'm protecting you.”

“You’re dissecting me.”

“Semantics.”

She storms forward, her robe swishing with every furious step. Her bare feet slap the stone floor, and I notice a bead of water slide down her collarbone and vanish between her breasts. Focus, Creed.

“I’m not your patient,” she hisses, “your property, or your goddamn problem.”

“Wrong.” I tilt my head. “You’re my assignment.”

There it is… the spark. The moment something in her stalls and recalculates. Instead of her rage fading, which I was expecting from her, it sharpens.

She stops in front of me, leaning close. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her eyes. She smells like jasmine and fury.

“You don’t scare me,” she whispers.

I look at her parted lips, still damp from sleep or steam or both, then back to her eyes.

“You should be scared,” I say quietly, “of what watches you. Not what guards you.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moves. Even the wind outside stills. She looks at me with disdain, like she’s disgusted by my presence, but I know there’s a part of her that’s intrigued. Even if there isn’t, I’ll take it as a challenge.

“You think you know me?” Her voice shakes now, but not from weakness. It’s rage barely contained in flesh. “Get the fuck out.”

I stay seated. One breath. Two.

“I know what happens next,” I say. “You rebel. You seduce. And you test your cage until it bites back.”

She sucks in a breath like I slapped her. Color floods her cheeks, but it’s not from embarrassment. It’s rage. Real, raw, and beautiful rage.

“Oh, I’ll make your job hell ,” she spits, her eyes blazing like she’s about to flip the entire table onto my lap.

I nod, slow and purposeful, fighting the urge to smile. Or worse… get hard. Because apparently, I’m that sick bastard who finds a silk-robed hurricane threatening him in a marble dining hall arousing .

“Then we understand each other,” I murmur, keeping my tone flat but my jaw tight.

She stares at me like she wants to claw my eyes out, and I let her. Because I already know her next move. She’ll pull back, retreat, and plot.

And I’ll be right there, watching. Because that’s the job. And because I can’t look away even if I wanted to.

The rest of the day drags on without drama, which should be a win in my line of work, but instead, it feels like waiting for a tripwire to snap.

Lyra doesn’t leave the house, doesn’t throw tantrums, and doesn’t even breathe in my direction.

Which, frankly, is more terrifying than her storming around in silk robes and swearing like a drunk heiress in a scandalous memoir.

Evander is off playing corporate overlord.

No check-ins or barking orders. Just me and this goddamn estate that’s too peaceful, too polished, and smells faintly like old money and moral decay.

I spend the afternoon fine-tuning surveillance feeds, syncing motion alerts to my phone, and memorizing the patterns of her footsteps upstairs.

They’re light when she’s thinking, sharp when she’s pissed, and dangerously silent when she’s plotting.

And tonight? She’s plotting. I know it before she even steps into frame.

It’s after midnight when the central hallway camera picks up movement. I don’t hear her. I feel her. It’s like the air gets tighter before a storm, or the static of something wicked charging up your body.

And then there she is, wearing a satin slip that’s barely a whisper against her skin.

It’s the kind of thing that says look without touching and pay the price .

It clings to her like it was tailored by sin itself, cut high at the thighs, low across her chest, and revealing her breasts in two perfect circles.

Her ass looks peachy in that slip, and the straps are so thin that they could snap if she blinked too hard.

She didn’t just throw this on. This was a calculated wardrobe choice. She planned this.

Her dark auburn hair, thick and slightly damp from the shower, is left loose tonight, cascading over her shoulders in wild, defiant waves like a lioness mid-prowl. That rebellious ponytail she was wearing this morning is gone. Now there’s no shield. Just satin, skin, and war in her eyes.

Those eyes, light brown, wide and sharp, catch the lens like they know .

Like they’re waiting to see how far I’ll go before I flinch.

Her porcelain skin glows under the dim sconces, impossibly smooth, with the faintest flush across her collarbones.

She always flushes when emotional. Or turned on.

A scar curves along her shoulder, faint but visible.

It’s a tiny imperfection she never tries to hide.

And the beauty mark at the corner of her jaw? Fucking lethal.

Earlier tonight, she spent far too long in the bathroom. Long enough to raise red flags. Long enough to make most agents check the cam feed.

I didn’t.

She took a change of clothes in with her, which meant she was staging something, not cracking. And besides, the camera in the bathroom is for emergencies. I’m not a goddamn pervert, no matter how much of a bastard I am.

And now she’s walking like a challenge wrapped in satin, slow and smooth and deadly.

Her movements are performed.

She knows where the cameras are. She knows where my eyes are.

And she’s putting on a goddamn show.

I should be pissed. Furious. This is a provocation, plain and simple. Earlier, she screamed about violation and stormed in like a hurricane with a superiority complex. Now, she’s using the same cameras she cursed, like they’re a stage.

But I’m not angry.

I’m intrigued. And hard.

And that’s worse.

She moves like she’s testing the leash, seeing how far she can yank before it snaps back. And me? I’m the poor bastard holding it and pretending the collar isn’t already half around my own throat.

She steps directly in front of the central lens, stops, and looks straight into it.

Then, she raises a glass of red wine.

The shit’s crimson. Planned. The color of blood, sex, and a really expensive scandal. She lifts the glass slowly, like a toast to war. And smiles. Barely. Just enough to say I know you’re watching me, bastard.

Then comes the kicker.

Her voice comes through, low and venom-sweet. “Still watching, creep?”

God help me.

I don’t even breathe.

“Always,” I whisper. Not into the mic. Not to her. Just to myself. To the damn machine that’s as much mine now as she is.

And then, she throws it .

The wine glass flies toward the camera in a red arc of rebellion. It shatters against the lens with a sharp, satisfying crack, crimson splattering across the feed like a murder scene. The camera glitches, flashes, and adjusts. Then, the auto-cleaners kick in.

Well, I sure wasn’t expecting that. She thinks she won.

Cute.

But the feed doesn’t die.

It distorts, turning her into something raw and wild, blurred by defiance and the dripping wine. Her hair sticks to her cheek, and her lips curl in satisfaction. The red mess only makes her more vivid.

And I’m just sitting here, watching, and grinning like the twisted son of a bitch I am.

I should be mad. I should be writing up a report. Instead, I laugh. Low and dark. That private, dangerous kind of laugh you let out when something gets under your skin, and you like it .

This girl. This spoiled, brilliant, rage-wrapped hellcat is trying to shake me. And it’s working.

She stands there a beat longer, poised in chaos, her eyes locked on the camera like she can see through it, straight through me.

And then she turns.

Hair swaying. Feet silent. Slip clinging. No more pretense of modesty.

She walks away like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just draw first blood.

And I sit there, staring at the red-smudged screen and grinning like a man who has just realized his prison might be the only thing worth staying in.

Because whatever game she’s playing is not one I plan to lose.

Outside my tiny window, the trees moan in the wind, and pine needles whip like warnings. Something darker than us stirs out there.

But inside, the real danger had already made its move.

And it’s not the thing in the woods. It’s me.

Silas Creed.