Chapter 11 #2
“That’s too bad, but you can’t remain here.” Roan’s voice cuts in, and my heart stutters, my body physically jolting.
Shit. When did he—
I turn slowly, and there he is, filling the doorway with his tall, solid frame, radiating tension like a live wire. His eyes are locked on me, intense and almost angry, though I can’t tell why.
Is he mad at me? He’s the one demanding I move in with him! I know it’s his doing. Not Afrim’s.
“You’re mine now.”
The words land with dark finality, and inappropriate heat rushes through my body. I feel it sudden and sharp between my thighs, and I press them together instinctively, hating how my panties dampen, hating how those three words from his mouth can unravel me like this.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“It’s settled, Mia,” Afrim says with a small smile, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.
I try to swallow, but my throat has gone dry, pulse thundering so loud in my ears that everything else sounds muffled and distant. Roan’s gaze doesn’t waver. The longer he looks, the harder it is to breathe. I feel trapped, exposed.
I mumble something—I don’t even know what—and flee, walking as fast as I can back to the maid’s quarters.
You’re mine now. The words echo in my head the whole way there.
What does he mean I’m his? Is he angry with me? Why would he be? But if he’s not angry, then why did his words feel like a threat?
No, not a threat. A promise.
Don’t overthink it. Stop feeling. It’s nothing.
I’m shoving my meager wardrobe into a bag when someone knocks. The door swings open before I can answer, and Esma’s bright face peeks in. “You’re moving into Roan’s house?”
The excitement in her voice grates against my frayed nerves. “Yeah, apparently.”
Her eyes go wide, practically glowing. “No maid has ever been allowed to live with the Permetis before. Girl, is something going on between the two of you?”
“No!” The denial comes out too sharp, too defensive, but I can’t help it. Because I hate the way my heart thuds at the mere suggestion. I soften my tone because it’s not her fault my life is imploding. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re moving into his house.” She steps inside, folding her arms like a prosecutor making her case. “You could still clean it from here. Why would he make you move in?”
Good point. I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Because I don’t know. Because I didn’t get a choice. “Who knows what the hell is going on in his head?” I mutter, stuffing another shirt into the bag. What does he want with me anyway? Does he suspect something?
“Maybe he wants you.”
The words hit like a punch, and I snap my gaze to hers, eyes narrowing. “What?”
She shrugs, unbothered. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“No.” I zip the bag shut—hard. “You’re imagining things.” He doesn’t look at me in any particular way. Shit, do I look at him some type of way? My heart squeezes at the thought, heat flooding my face. God, I hope not.
“Maybe,” she allows, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, I have to get to work. Good luck, though. Maybe you can invite me over sometime?” Her smile turns wistful.
I make a noncommittal sound. Even if I wanted to invite her, I seriously doubt Roan would allow visitors. His space. His rules.
She finally leaves and I try to dismiss her words, but they linger, prickling under my skin, crawling into my thoughts.
Does he want me? How does he look at me?
I’m suddenly dying to know what’s different about his expression when he looks at me.
But none of that should matter. No, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want me and I can’t want him. He may not know it yet, but we’re on enemy lines, and that line can’t be crossed. I’m here to spy on his family and betray them.
That’s the reality. That’s what matters.
But my little pep talk doesn’t stop the knot of dread—and something else—from tightening in my chest as I make the short walk to his house.
The structure makes me stop and stare despite my anxiety. It’s stunning—a sleek one-story design with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, clean white walls, and a polished stone path leading to an impressive front door.
No wonder Esma wanted an invitation.
I hesitate on the doorstep, swallowing hard before knocking. No answer. I wait and knock again. Still nothing.
Is he even here?
After another pause, I test the handle. It turns easily, and the door glides open without a sound. I step inside, careful not to make one either.
The air is cool and still, filled with the faint hum of air conditioning and the scent of clean linen, dark wood, cedar—and Roan. Goosebumps prickle across my skin as I move deeper inside.
The main living area is all open concept—an immaculate kitchen to the left, a spacious living room to the right, and a hallway stretching towards the rest of the house. At the end, I spot stairs leading to the second level.
The kitchen draws my eyes. It’s beautiful, spotless, too perfect. Which only makes me more tense. He doesn’t need a maid to clean this place.
“You’re here.”
I jolt violently, my heart leaping into my throat as I spin around.
Roan’s standing at the foot of the stairs, arms folded across his chest, watching me with that unreadable expression. His gaze sweeps over me slowly before he steps closer.
“Yes,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Your room’s upstairs. First door on the left.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice drops lower—that thick tone that makes something twist inside me. “You answer to me now.”
“I understand.” I don’t. I really don’t.
“You’ll keep the house spotless and stay out of trouble.”
My jaw tightens. “I know how to do my job.”
“Do you?” He closes the distance between us, and suddenly the air feels heavier, his presence overwhelming. “What job is that, exactly? I wonder sometimes.”
There’s a tension in his voice I can’t decipher. What’s he talking about? Something dark simmers in his green gaze. And he’s close enough now that I can feel the heat coming off him, smell the faint hint of his cologne.
I swallow, stepping back—but there’s nowhere to go. The door is at my back, and he’s right in front of me, somehow managing to cage me without even trying. His gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, then his jaw clenches like he’s restraining himself from something. From what?
“If you follow my rules and do your duties, you’ll be fine, Katina.” Warning threads through his lowered voice, but his eyes… they darken, intensifying with a heat that builds the longer he watches me. Heat that steals the breath right out of my chest.
But then his words sink in and my eyes widen. “What?” The word comes out as barely a whisper.
“You want to know what the rules are? Good. First of all—”
“No, no, what did you call me?”
His eyes seem to glitter with something that might be satisfaction as he steps impossibly closer, erasing what little space remained between us.
The air thickens even more, becoming almost solid, and my heart races out of control.
“I told you Mia doesn’t suit you, didn’t I? Katina suits you better.”
No, no, no.
His hand rises, his fingers tangling in the short strands of my hair, giving a soft tug that makes my scalp prickle with unwanted sensation.
I can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, the room too small.
Katina.
It’s too close. Too close to Katie. Too close to who I really am.
Panic explodes in my chest. Did he find out? No. That’s impossible. I was careful. I’ve been so careful.
But I can’t stop the fear from clawing its way up my throat.
His fingers slide from my hair to the side of my face in a gesture that’s almost tender, then down, curling around my throat. Not tight—barely even pressing—but enough that I feel the weight of his touch. Enough to keep me still, paralyzed, while my pulse hammers frantically against his palm.
“What are you thinking?” His voice rumbles through me. “You’re turning a most interesting shade of grey.”
I swallow and my throat moves against his hand. My lungs shudder as I try to draw air. “I’m thinking—I’m thinking I prefer being called Mia.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. But his eyes stay intense, burning. “Too bad. I prefer Katina.”
Panic coils tighter. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let him chip away at my cover, can’t let him dig any deeper. He can’t call me Katina.
“Please, Roan.” I grab his shirt without thinking, the fabric bunching in my desperate fists. “My name is Mia. It makes me sick that you’re insisting on calling me this other name and—”
His mouth crushes against mine.
Oh.
Shock jolts through me. Hot and sharp and all-consuming.
His hand tightens on my throat, just enough to tilt my head back at the angle he wants, his lips pressing, demanding.
I gasp against his mouth and his tongue slips past my lips in a rough, hungry sweep that makes my knees go weak.
You’re supposed to fight this. Push him away. Maintain your cover.
But I’m crumbling in his arms instead, melting against him like I’ve been waiting for this, like every defense I’ve built is made of paper and he’s made of fire.