Grace
My breath hitches with fear, but I press it down; because underneath the fear is something else. Something that feels like curiosity, like the thrill I used to get walking into a hostile negotiation.
He's not touching me, not even close, but I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.
He doesn’t answer at first, just turns and starts walking. The movement is deliberate, confident. This is a man who doesn’t ask, only expects compliance. I want to push against it, but I know this is exactly what I signed up for. I had no other choice.
I follow.
The elevator waits at the end of the hall, the mirrored doors throwing our reflections back at us. He presses the button, and I notice the veins in his hands, the way the cuff of his shirt slides just enough to reveal a heavy watch. It’s not decorative, it’s functional. Precision, control.
The doors slide open with a soft chime.
Inside, it’s too quiet. I can hear the faint hum of the machinery and my own heartbeat trying to climb out of my throat.
He glances at me, not impatient, just assessing. “You don’t have to look so nervous,” he says. “If I meant you harm, you’d know it already.”
“That’s comforting,” I mutter.
“Isn’t it?” He grins, and it’s wicked. My stomach erupts with caged butterflies and heat begins to crawl through my veins, all heading in the direction of the space between my thighs. I ignore it. It’s ridiculous.
The elevator hums upward. I count the floors under my breath, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, because focusing on numbers keeps me grounded.
When the doors open, he steps out first and swipes a keycard across a door panel. The suite beyond is enormous. All wide windows, low light, the city sprawling below like a bed of embers.
He moves through the space with unthinking ownership, taking off his jacket and laying it over the back of a chair before turning toward the bar. “Drink?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Good,” he says, pouring one for himself. “You’ll need a clear head.”
The irritation flares before I can stop it. “You don’t get to order me around. You paid for what I offered on that stage, information from me in exchange for my protection.”
He takes a slow sip, eyes on mine. “You said protection for life. That comes with conditions.”
“Conditions you’re apparently making up as you go along,” I clarify and raise my brows to punctuate my point.
His mouth curves slightly, though it’s not amusement. “Do you think you’re in a position to negotiate?”
“I’m always in a position to negotiate. It’s my job.”
“Was you job.” He sets his glass down. The sound is soft, precise, final. “By all means, tell me your terms.”
I fold my arms, masking the tremor in my fingers with posture. “You get the information. You make sure I don’t end up in a cell or a morgue. That’s the deal.”
“And what do you get, Grace?”
My name in his mouth feels dangerous. Too intimate, too deliberate. “My life back.”
“You can’t go back,” he says simply. “You can only go forward. That’s what you were really selling tonight. The illusion that you can rewind the damage. But I don’t deal in illusions.”
The words sting, because they’re true.
He crosses the room slowly, stopping a pace too close. “You need protection. I can give you that. But when I say you’re under it, that means you answer to me. I don’t take chances with what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
He studies me for a long, charged moment. “Not yet.”
The air thickens between us. I should step back. I should say something sharp enough to shatter this impossible tension, but the words don’t come. He’s too close now, heat radiating through the space between us, the scent of him wrapping around me like smoke.
“What’s your name?” I ask finally, my voice barely steady. “You know mine. Seems only fair.”
He hesitates, then says it like a statement of power, not an introduction. “Liam Orlov.”
The name lands like a weight in my stomach. I know that name, everyone in this world does. Orlov Shipping. The family empire with rumors of darker holdings. Control, efficiency, discretion.
I swallow hard. “You run half the Baltic.”
“Closer to two-thirds,” he corrects, but not out of arrogance, thank God, because I don’t think I could handle masculine arrogance right now.
“Then I guess I’ve really outdone myself,” I say. “Walking straight into another man’s empire.”
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something like approval in his eyes. “No, Grace. You didn’t walk in.” He leans closer, voice lowering. “You were acquired. And then claimed.”
The heat in his gaze sends a shiver down my spine. I tell myself it’s fear. But we both know better.
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. The silence between us is thick enough to drown in.
He’s too close, and I hate how aware I am of it. The heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scrape of stubble when he tilts his head just slightly. Every instinct tells me to step back. Every nerve refuses to move.
“Claimed,” I repeat softly, letting the word roll off my tongue like something poisonous. “You make it sound like I’m property.”
“Not property,” he says. “Responsibility.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “That’s not better.”
“It’s safer.”
The quiet authority in his voice does something to me. Not just the sound of it, but the certainty. He believes what he says. Every word, every promise. I think that might be the most dangerous part.
“You think I need a man like you to save me?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You auctioned yourself for protection. Tell me what that makes me, then.”
The comeback dies on my tongue. He’s right, and that makes me furious.
“I didn’t ask for control,” I say instead. “I asked for safety.”
He steps closer, until I can feel his breath against my temple. “Safety is control, Grace. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
I tilt my head up, refusing to look away. “And what if I don’t play by your rules?”
“Then you’ll learn them.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “But something tells me you’re already very good at learning what men expect.”
The words hit harder than they should. They’re not cruel, but they are devastatingly accurate. I’ve spent my life reading men like him, anticipating every move before they made it. It’s what made me successful. It’s also what got me destroyed.
And yet, somehow, I can’t read him.
“You think you have me figured out?” I whisper.
His gaze drags over my masked face, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the map of a territory he’s already decided to conquer. “Not yet. But I will. Now you just need to let go.”
Let go. Like it’s easy to release the fear and anger and resentment that took root inside me when my boss threw me to the wolves. All the years of working my ass off to climb a ladder made for men. The harassment, the belittling, the constant degradation because I’m a woman.
Could it all be as simple as letting go? Could acting on instinct instead of facts and logic really be what I need right now? Should I even be considering handing the weight of it all to him, and trust he can carry it safely?
Let go.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I don’t mean to move closer; it just happens. A breath, a heartbeat, and suddenly there’s no space left between us.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek. The touch is light, almost reverent. It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel comforting, and somehow electric.
“This is a mistake,” I murmur, as my pulse hammers below my jaw.
“Probably,” he says, his mouth hovering inches from mine. “But I don’t care.”
And then he kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s a collision of power and surrender, of two people who don’t know if they’re allies or enemies yet. Only that something bigger than reason is pulling them under.
For a moment, I forget everything. The scandal. The fear. The fact that he bought me. There’s only heat and hunger and the terrifying truth that I want him to kiss me again and again and not stop.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless, dizzy and furious at myself.
He looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether to walk away or do it again.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say, though my voice doesn’t sound like mine.
“No,” he agrees, eyes dark. “But neither should you have.”
The words hang there, dangerous and true. But most frightening of all, I don’t feel powerless anymore. I feel alive.