Page 30

Arden

T he house is silent, a rare luxury I plan to savor, since Holden’s gone to pick up the senator. Thank God for that. I have the entire place to myself. He can stay brooding and insufferable all he wants; I’m not in the mood for his sharp blue eyes cutting into me like I’m the source of all his problems.

And I’m not complaining. Not really. His absence is a reprieve, and I intend to make the most of it. Tonight’s gala will demand more patience than I have in reserve, especially with him by my side. For now, though, this is my time.

I step into the bathroom, lighting a few candles without much thought. The warm glow reflects off the tiles, softening the edges of the space and giving it a cocoon-like feel. Steam curls in the air as I fill the tub, the faint scent of lavender rising with the heat.

The tension in my body melts away the second I slip beneath the water, the warmth wrapping around me like a balm. I let my head fall back against the edge, closing my eyes, willing myself to shut out the world.

But the world has other plans.

Or, more accurately, he does.

Holden Grant’s face is seared into my thoughts, and no amount of lavender or candlelight can erase the memory of his hands on my body, his mouth claiming me like it was a right. My skin tingles at the phantom sensation of his fingers tracing every inch of me, the way his voice drops to a low growl as he whispers my name like a prayer and a curse.

I curse under my breath, but it doesn’t help. The memory is relentless, vivid in a way that makes my pulse quicken and my thighs press together beneath the water.

This is ridiculous.

But no matter how much I try to push it away, the thought of him keeps pulling me under. My fingers trail across my collarbone, down my chest, and over the curve of my breast. My breath hitches as my fingers move lower, the warmth of the bath doing little to disguise the fire building inside me.

I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t let him have this power over me, even in my own head.

But my body betrays me.

My eyes flutter shut as my hand dips beneath the water, my touch slow and tentative at first, but growing bolder as the memory of him takes over. I imagine his hands instead of mine, his roughness, his control. The ache deepens, spreading through me like molten heat, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan.

“Don’t stop.”

His voice cuts through the haze, dark and commanding, and my eyes fly open.

Holden.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, his broad shoulders casting a shadow across the candlelit room.

His blue eyes are dark and dangerous, filled with something raw and primal that makes my breath catch.

I scramble to cover myself, the water sloshing around me, but his gaze pins me in place.

“I said don’t stop,” he repeats, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Holden,” I whisper, my voice shaky, a mix of shock and something else I can’t name.

He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. The air between us crackles with tension, and my heart races as he stops just short of the tub, his gaze never leaving mine.

“You started this,” he says, his tone velvet and steel. “Don’t stop now.”

The sheer audacity of his words should make me angry. It should make me tell him to get the hell out. But instead, it sends a rush of heat through me, the weight of his stare igniting something dark and reckless inside me.

My hand trembles beneath the water, but I don’t move, my body frozen under the intensity of his gaze.

“Keep going, Arden,” he murmurs. “Show me.”

The room feels smaller, the air heavier, and my pulse pounds in my ears as I realize I’m going to obey him. Against all logic, against everything I know about him and myself, I let my hand move again.

The heat in his eyes darkens, his jaw tightening as he watches, and the look on his face is enough to unravel me completely.

This is dangerous. This is wrong.

And I’ve never wanted anything more.

The tension between us is unbearable, suffocating. He doesn’t move, doesn’t touch me, but his presence consumes the room. His command lingers in the air, heavy and intoxicating.

“Slower,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, and I feel the heat of it everywhere.

My hand trembles as it moves beneath the water, and I bite my lip to hold back the sound building in my throat. His gaze never wavers, locked on me like he’s daring me to stop, daring me to defy him.

“Don’t hold back,” he says, his tone dipping into something darker. “Let me see you.”

My breath catches, and I hate the way my body listens and how it responds to him as if it’s not my own. I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation, to the memory of his hands on me, his mouth, his voice.

“Eyes on me,” Holden growls, and my eyes snap open, meeting his.

The intensity in his stare sears through me like a physical touch. It’s possessive and all-consuming, sending a rush of heat through my body that has nothing to do with the bathwater.

His jaw tightens, and his hands flex at his sides, but he still doesn’t move. He stands there, watching, commanding without lifting a finger. The tension coils tighter and tighter until it’s almost unbearable.

“Just like that,” he says, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “Good girl.”

The words hit me like a shock wave, and I gasp his name on my lips, my body shuddering as the pleasure overtakes me. My hand stills, and for a moment, the only sound in the room is my ragged breathing.

When I finally meet his eyes again, the look he gives me is devastating. It’s not just lust or possession, it’s something deeper, darker. Something that feels like it’s branding me from the inside out.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The moment stretches into eternity, his gaze scorching me until I can’t take it anymore.

“Get dressed,” he says finally, his voice calm and composed, as if he hadn’t just stripped me bare in every possible way. Then he turns and leaves, the door closing behind him echoing in the silence.

I take my time getting ready, letting the shower's hot water rinse away the remnants of the bath and the memory of his eyes on me. But no amount of scrubbing can erase the way he made me feel—exposed, vulnerable, and alive .

The gala demands more effort than I’ve given in months. My usual tactical gear is replaced with a sleek black dress that hugs every curve. The smooth fabric is cool against my skin, and the slit up the side is high enough to make even me blush. My hair is swept into an elegant chignon, with a few loose curly strands framing my face.

It’s been too long since I’ve gotten dressed up like this, since I’ve looked in the mirror and seen someone other than the agent or the fighter. For a moment, I almost don’t recognize myself.

When I step into the hallway, Holden’s low intake of breath stops me in my tracks.

He’s leaning against the wall, and his suit is immaculate, but something is raw in his expression as he takes me in. His eyes trail over me slowly, lingering on the curve of my waist, the slit in my dress, and finally, my face.

“You clean up well, Williams,” he says, his voice rougher than usual.

My cheeks heat under his gaze, but I force myself to hold his stare. “Don’t get used to it.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He steps closer, pulling something from his pocket—a ring.

“For the charade,” he says, slipping it onto my finger. Its weight feels heavier than it should, the simple silver band cool against my skin.

“It feels… weird,” I murmur, glancing down at it.

“It’s supposed to,” he says, his tone unreadable. His fingers brush against mine as he pulls back, and the brief contact sends a jolt through me.

The ride to pick up the senator is quiet, the tension from earlier simmering just below the surface. When Fallon slides into the back seat, his gaze flicks to me, and his brows lift slightly.

“You look absolutely riveting, Mrs. Smith,” he says, face full of shock. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

I genuinely can’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult.

I force a smile, but my focus is on Holden. He doesn’t react to Fallon’s comment, his expression unreadable as he drives.

The senator doesn’t push for conversation, and I’m grateful. The rest of the drive is spent in silence, the tension in the car thick enough to cut with a knife.

When we arrive at the gala, the building looms ahead, its grand facade lit up against the night sky. The weight of the evening settles over me, and I glance down at the ring on my finger, the charade feeling more real than it should.

Holden steps out first, offering me his hand. The look in his eyes as he helps me out of the car is one I’ll feel in my bones for days to come.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

As cliché as it sounds, it gives me butterflies. I don’t know exactly how to respond or how I feel about that.

Instead, I force a smile, slipping my hand into the crook of his arm as we approach the entrance. The senator is in front of us, but we follow closely, his presence a reminder of why we’re here.

But as we step into the grand ballroom, the weight of Holden’s gaze and the memory of his voice stay with me, an invisible tether pulling me deeper into something I’m not sure I can escape.