Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
War
She’s still asleep.
Sprawled in my bed, wrapped in the scent of sex and sweat and her perfume still clinging to her skin.
Olivia.
My Olivia.
I’ve never liked waking up next to anyone. I usually don’t. I leave. Or make them. Most don’t even make it past midnight. But this—
This feels…different.
Dangerously so.
Her cheek is pressed to my pillow, lips slightly parted, lashes still fluttering like she’s dreaming. There’s a faint pink flush across her chest. Her hair’s a mess, her body still glowing from last night, and I can’t fucking look away.
She took everything I gave her.
Every inch.
Every word.
Every order.
Perfect.
My jaw flexes. I should let her sleep. Should let her rest. But part of me wants to wake her just to hear her say my name again, wrecked and breathless and fucking mine.
My chest tightens as I watch her, like something inside me is shifting, re-arranging itself in the space she’s already started to claim.
I’m not used to soft.
But with her, it’s effortless.
Natural.
Right.
She deserves more.
Not just orgasms and control. Not just this penthouse or a weekend in my bed.
She needs more designer dresses tailored to hug her curves. The kind of luxury that turns heads the second she walks into a room.
She needs hair products and makeup laid out for her every morning. Creams, palettes, the perfect shade of lipstick I’ll fuck off her lips before she finishes her first sip of coffee.
She needs her favorite perfume always stocked.
Purses. Shoes. A whole fucking store.
Whatever she wants, it’s mine to give her.
She needs to move in.
Soon.
I could have the closet cleared out in an hour. Drawers emptied. Security updated. Her name on the elevator list. Done before she even finishes brunch.
She might just be…
No.
I stop the thought dead in its tracks.
Because if she’s mine permanently…
That means being a Beaumont.
And Beaumont’s don’t love clean. We ruin. We rot from the inside out.
If I keep her, if I make her mine the way I want to, it won’t be long before the blood of my name starts staining hers too.
I’ll destroy her just by letting her love me.
And I don’t know if I’ll care enough to stop it.
My name can’t be trusted with anything good.
Especially not someone like her.
I shake it off and slide out of bed, careful not to wake her. My feet hit the cool floor, and I head for the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water like it’ll wash the thoughts away.
It doesn’t.
I glance over my shoulder toward the bedroom, my jaw tightening.
She’ll be hungry when she wakes up.
I grab my phone, already typing.
Room service won’t cut it. She deserves the best. I find her favorite breakfast spot and order everything she loves. Extra. Enough to make her smile, to make her feel spoiled.
Because she is.
She’s mine now.
And I’m going to make sure she never forgets what that means.
I order everything she needs and I wait.
The tray of food sits ready by the bed, steam curling in the air. Truffle eggs, croissants, roasted potatoes, a seasonal fruit compote I had them remake twice until it looked good enough for her.
Only the best.
And next to it, the bags. Clothes delivered at dawn. Dresses, shoes, makeup, everything she should have at her fingertips. Everything I’ll give her without hesitation.
I sit in the armchair across the room, shirtless, sweatpants low on my hips, watching her.
Hours pass, and I don’t move.
Can’t.
I wait for the scent of breakfast to wake her.
Her chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths. Her lips are parted, swollen from my kisses.
I begin to catalog.
Every curve I worshipped.
Every sound she made when she broke beneath me.
Every soft, greedy clutch of her cunt on my cock.
I want it again.
Now.
But I force myself to sit, to watch, to starve in silence. Because the ache in my chest, the hunger crawling under my skin, is almost sweeter than the release.
Almost.
She looks fragile like this. Breakable. But mine to break or protect and I haven’t decided which—maybe both.
No one else will ever get this view.
Her lashes flutter. She stirs. A soft sound escapes her throat, and I lean forward in the chair, pulse kicking like I’ve been waiting a lifetime for her to wake.
Her eyes crack open.
Wide, startled, doe-eyed.
Perfect.
“There she is,” I murmur, voice rough from disuse.
She startles hard, jerking upright in bed.
The comforter drops.
And there they are.
Her breasts, soft and flushed and perfect, bouncing slightly with the movement. The blanket pools at her hips like an invitation.
She gasps and reaches for the comforter, trying to drag it up.
“Don’t.” My voice cuts sharp across the room.
Her breath hitches. Her fingers still.
Good.
I rise from the chair, slow, deliberate, and cross to the bed. She watches every step like she can’t decide whether to run or melt into it.
That’s good. Fear and hunger look beautiful on her.
When I reach her, I set the tray across her lap, the legs sliding neatly into place.
“Eat,” I order.
She hesitates, always so hesitant, always second-guessing, but then she picks up the fork, testing a bite. Her lips part on a soft hum as she chews, and the sound knots low in my gut.
I don’t comment. I don’t need to. She’ll learn in time that everything she loves will always be provided.
As she eats, I cross to the closet and pull out the bags delivered this morning. Designer. Tailored. Every detail chosen because I’ve already memorized her size, her style, her preferences. Dresses. Shoes. A silk blouse the color of her blush.
Her fork slows as she watches me lay each piece out.
I pick up the mint green cashmere sweater.
“This.” I hold it up. “With the cream skirt and heels. You’ll wear it today.”
Her throat works as she swallows, fork paused halfway to her lips.
I smooth the fabric once before laying it neatly at the foot of the bed. Then I add the silk lingerie beneath it, the straps delicate, designed for me to peel off her later.
Her brows draw in as she takes in the clothing on the bed, but she says nothing.
Good.
She needs to understand what this is.
“You don’t need to worry about what to bring next time.” My voice stays even, controlled, the way I give orders at work. “Everything you need is here now. Clothes. Makeup. Shoes. Perfume. Your sizes, your colors, your preferences; I’ve taken care of it.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
“You’ll be staying the weekend,” I tell her, calm but deliberate.
Her fork clatters softly against the tray.
“This morning a walk through the Conservatory Garden. You’ll like it. Roses, fountains, quiet paths where no one will bother us.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue, but I don’t let her.
“After that, an art exhibit. Something I want you to see. Tonight, dinner. No parties. No noise. Just us.”
I let the silence stretch until she finally looks at me. Then I pin her there with my eyes.
“And after this weekend,” I murmur, leaning forward, “you’ll leave with me every morning to work. You’ll come home with me every night. And by the end of the week, Olivia, you’ll be moved in.”
Her breath hitches.
I smile. Slow. Dangerous.
Inside, my chest is a riot. Because the thought of her here—permanently, sets something loose I’ve never let myself feel before.
But she doesn’t need to know that. Not yet.
All she needs to know is this:
Her life belongs to me now.