Page 37 of The Rules

"Name your price. Then triple it."

Ian's whistle pierces the tension, amusement dancing in those calculating eyes. "Persistent, aren't you?"

Ben holds his ground, face carved from stone, pulse steady beneath his collar. "Just persuasive."

Ian's smile tilts. Sharper now. Curious.

"So what is she to you, exactly? Obsession? Regret? Or just unfinished business?"

A beat. Barely a pause. But enough.

“She’s… interference." The word lands too easily. Too true.

Silence stretches between them. Ian's scrutiny lingers, testing boundaries, searching for cracks in perfect composure. Then he leans back slightly, eyes narrowing—not in judgment, but in consideration.

"You know the rules, Ben. You’ve been around long enough to understand why they exist." His voice is calm, but there’s an edge now—low, quiet, resolute. "They keep my girls safe. Physically. Emotionally. Especially from men who don’t know what they want."

Ben says nothing.

Ian watches him a moment longer, then exhales through his nose, the sound more tired than frustrated.

"If I let her take you again, I need to know she won’t be walking into something volatile."

A pause.

“I need your word. That she’ll be safe. That you’ll keep it clean.”

Ben meets his gaze. Steady. Measured. "She will."

Only then does Ian nod, slow and deliberate. His mouth shifts slightly, like he’s making peace with something he doesn’t entirely trust.

"I'll talk to her." He doesn’t smile this time.

The words fall short of commitment—but they carry possibility. For now.

Chapter 11

Katherine

Kath's fingers hover over the case file, but the words blur together, meaningless shapes on stark white paper. Her attention keeps drifting, pulled like a magnet across the office space to where Sinclair stands with Gregory Ranford.

His presence commands the room without effort. One hand tucked casually in his pocket, the other cutting through the air as he makes some point to Ranford. Every line of him is control—chin set, shoulders squared, hand slicing through the air.

She shouldn't notice these things. Shouldn't catalog the way his fingers flex when he emphasizes a word, or how his throat moves when he swallows. But her body remembers—remembers the weight of him beneath her, the rigid control in his muscles when she'd rolled her hips against him.

Sinclair speaks—low, smooth. His voice drips like warm honey down her spine—slow, sticky, infuriating. Her thighs clench before she can stop them.

Kath's body betrays her with visceral clarity—every sensation from that night flooding back unbidden. That sharp inhale he'd taken when she'd pressed closer echoes in her mind, making her pulse skip.

The pen creaks in her white-knuckled grip as more fragments assault her—the thick, hard length of him pressed against her core through the thin barrier of fabric, radiating heat that had scorched straight through to her bones. Her body had throbbed for him—wild, involuntary, humiliatingly honest.

"Fuck. Stop." Her lips form the words, but her body doesn’t listen. Her thighs clench, breath shuddering—traitorous, reckless. A molten need coils deeper, pulsing through her core with merciless intensity, each throb a cruel reminder of desires she can't afford to indulge. She forces her attention back to thecase file, desperate to focus on anything but the way she'd nearly shattered in his lap that night.

Movement catches her eye. Sinclair turns, and their gazes lock.

For one endless moment, the bustling office fades away completely. Logically, she knows he can't possibly read the thoughts racing through her mind—but his stare is deliberate, calculated, weighted with something that makes her stomach clench.

Gregory speaks beside him, but his eyes stay fixed on her for several heavy heartbeats. The look is a challenge—silent, deliberate. Waiting to see if she’ll break first. And for a split second, she almost does. Her pulse spikes, her breath stutters—but she forces steel into her spine.