12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Nico
I step out of the bathroom to the tail end of her call.
Erica’s curled on her side, the sheet pulled high, one hand clamped around my phone like it’s a lifeline. Her voice is low, urgent, trying too hard to sound normal. She says she’ll call later. She says she’s fine. She says she’s safe.
She ends the call fast, almost stabbing the screen, and sets my phone on the nightstand with careful fingers.
She turns her face away and hugs the blanket to her body like it can erase what happened. Like covering herself can rewind the night. Like if she pretends hard enough, she’ll find herself back in her own bed in her own room in the life she had yesterday.
Does she know how easy she is to read? That everything she’s feeling is written right there on her face.
She broadcasts everything. Her shoulders are tight. Her breathing is shallow. Her gaze keeps skidding toward the door, then snapping back to the bed like she’s afraid of what she’ll see if she looks too long.
Shame sits on her like a weight.
At work, she thinks she hides behind politeness. Behind “sir”, apologies, and that smile. She thinks if she stays quiet enough, nobody will notice what she’s carrying.
But this morning, there’s no office desk between us. No role to hide behind. No neat schedule, coffee runs, and email folders.
Just her in this bed, wrapped in a sheet she’s gripping like armor.
She’s naked under that blanket. I know it. I remember every inch of her. The soreness is written into the way she holds herself, the way her stomach tightens when she shifts, the way her thighs press together as if that will keep something in place.
My eyes cut to the blanket, and I feel the sharp instinct to correct her. To remind her of what I told her last night about hiding herself from me. The words are already there, ready on my tongue.
Then I stop.
The agreement is done. The night is done. The transaction is done. She isn’t mine anymore.
And the fact that I feel anything about that—anything that isn’t relief—irritates me more than I want to admit.
There’s a short, unexpected tug in my chest. Something like loss. Something like a door closing.
I shut it down.
I cross to the end of the bed and pick up the robe that got discarded sometime in the aftercare of the night. I hold it out to her.
“Put this on,” I say.
Her fingers tighten on the blanket.
For a second, she looks like she’s going to argue. Like pride will make her refuse just to prove she can. Then she swallows, eyes still averted, and reaches for the robe with one hand while the other keeps the sheet clutched tight.
She moves slowly, stiff. Careful. Like her body is sore enough that every motion costs her something.
I catch myself watching her too closely and force my gaze away.
I turn to the chair where my pants are and pull them on carelessly. I don’t bother to zip or button. We’re alone, and I’m not trying to impress anyone.
Except that’s a lie too, because I’m aware of her behind me. I’m aware of the way she’s freezing the moment I turn my back, like she expects me to do something.
I don’t.
I let her have the space.
A knock sounds on the door, brisk and firm.
I glance over my shoulder.
Erica’s in the robe now, belted tight, arms crossed over herself like she can hold herself together by force. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the carpet, head down. Blonde hair tangled, face flushed in a way that has nothing to do with heat.
Her eyes flick to me for half a second, then away.
I go to the door.
When I open it, a hotel staffer stands behind a breakfast cart. Early-twenties, red hair pulled back from a cute face with fair skin and a smattering of freckles across a button nose. Her amber eyes are neutral and bored… until they zero in on me and widen as color explodes in her cheeks.
She flicks her gaze past my shoulder, and I see her clock the messy bed behind me… and Erica in a robe. Her surprise shifts into something eager and nosy for a heartbeat. I shift to block her view and draw her eyes back to mine. Her blush deepens, and she drops her eyes to the cart.
“Breakfast,” she says quietly.
I take the cart from her, fingers closing over the bar as her hands release it. “Thanks,” I say flatly. I glance down the corridor as I pull it inside. No guards. No men in suits. No earpieces.
Their job is done.
Erica’s money has likely been left for her with a trusted source because they’ve already moved on to a different location to prepare for tonight’s auction.
I shut the door, lock it, and push the cart toward the dining table.
Coffee. Covered plates. Silverware wrapped in linen. A carafe of orange juice. A bowl of fruit. Toast. Eggs. The kind of breakfast meant to feel indulgent and normal at the same time.
Erica shifts behind me.
I hear it—the small hitch in her breath, the soft scrape of a foot on carpet. She’s moving away from the bed, slow and careful as if each step pulls at whatever’s sore. She keeps her eyes down, robe held tight.
That same tug hits my chest again.
Sorrow.
I call it what it is, just for a second, and then I crush it.
Because what rises under it is something darker and more honest: satisfaction. Possession. The knowledge that she’s sore because of me, and that her body will remember me even if her mind tries to file last night away as a mistake.
I don’t let any of it show.
I stop the cart at the table and pull the chair out with one hand, the wood scraping softly.
Erica stands a few feet away, staring at the cart like she doesn’t know what she’s seeing. Like she’s expecting another catch. Another rule. Another humiliation.
Her gaze flicks up to my chest, then away again.
She’s still trying not to look at me. As if looking will make it worse. As if meeting my eyes will mean she has to acknowledge what happened between us.
“Sit,” I say, short.
She flinches.
Not fear, not exactly. More like her body still recognizes the tone. More like her nerves remember last night and react before she can think.
She hesitates, then moves to the chair with careful steps. She lowers herself into it slowly, jaw tight, breath held until she’s down.
I pull the lid off the first plate.
Steam rises. Eggs, bacon, toast. Another plate with fruit and yogurt. Coffee already poured into a cup with cream on the side.
She watches my hands, not my face.
“Eat,” I tell her.
Her brows pinch, confused. Like she doesn’t understand why I’m still giving orders when the night is supposed to be over. Like she doesn’t know what to do with the fact that I’m still here at all.
“I-I should go,” she says quietly. “I have to…”
“Your dad. I know,” I say. “You’re no use to anyone like this.” I set the lid down, then slide the plate closer to her like proximity will solve the problem. “You need to recover.”
Her fingers curl around the edge of the chair like she might stand up again. “I need to get home,” she says, voice thin.
“And do what? Pass out? Curl up in the corner and cry?” I say. “You can leave when you can stand without shaking.”
Her eyes flash up to mine, sharp and miserable. “You don’t get to order me around anymore,” she says, and it’s the closest she’s come to sounding like herself. Exactly what I intended. “Last night was—” She cuts it off, throat working. “It’s over.”
I hold her gaze and let the silence stretch until her breathing evens out a fraction. “Over doesn’t mean erased,” I say calmly. “If you want to pretend it didn’t happen, there will be consequences.”
Her chin lifts, stubborn even while her eyes shine. “Stop talking like you know me,” she snaps. “You don’t. You just—” She breaks off, swallowing hard. The next words come out almost too quiet to hear. “You bought one night.”
“You sold one night,” I say, turning it around on her.
She flinches.
“The difference is that I knew what I was getting myself into.” I don’t bother to soften it. “You feel like this because you weren’t prepared for what happened last night, and you’ve fought me every step of the way since.”
“I’m fine,” she says, and her breath hitches at the end. “I don’t have time for whatever this is.”
“’Whatever this is’ is vital.” I lean back in my chair, watching her try to hold it together… and failing miserably. “You were affected physically and mentally. Physically, you’ll recover quickly. Mentally will take more time. It takes time when everything you thought you knew has chang—”
Her eyes flash, wet and furious, and she snatches the fork like she wants to stab something with it. “Don’t,” she says, voice breaking on the single syllable. “Don’t say that. I did what I had to do. For my dad. That’s it.”
“And the longer you deny it,” I continue calmly, “the longer it’s going to take to recover.”
“Don’t act like you care,” she spits out. “You don’t get to sit there and—” Her voice cracks, and she hates it. I see it in the way she swallows hard and looks away. “This isn’t normal. You aren’t normal.”
I ignore the pain those words bring—memories of those words being thrown at me when I was younger and confused.
Confused about my own needs and urges. It’s been a long time since I felt like that, but instead of letting her words anger me and hurt me, I use them to remind me of what it was like to be in her place.
“You want me to be a monster so you can hate me. You want to blame me for all of this, Erica,” I tell her. “But the truth is, if you didn’t want what happened last night, it wouldn’t have happened.”
She’s shaking her head. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not,” I say firmly. “When I walked into this room yesterday, I intended to put you in a car and send you home.”
“Why didn’t you?” she cries out, furiously.
“Because you didn’t want me to.” I keep my voice calm against her broken one. “Everything I did was in reaction to you.”
Erica presses her hands to her ears, her head still shaking as tears flow out of her eyes.
“Stop,” she chokes out. “Don’t say that. I can’t—” Her chest heaves, and she makes a sound that’s half sob, half furious exhale. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want any of it.”
I stand up and walk around the table. I wrap my hands around her forearms and pull her hands away from her ears, turning her to face me as I crouch next to her.
Her hands tremble in mine. Her eyes are wet and wild; chin lifted in defiance even as her lower lip shakes. I keep my expression neutral. “Breathe. In. Out. I lead her through it and wait until she takes a jagged inhale, then another. “Look at me, Erica.”
She tries to jerk away on instinct, but she’s weak from exhaustion and pain and adrenaline, and it only makes her wince.
I loosen immediately, shifting my grip down to her wrists. “You’re panicking,” I say, each word measured. “You’re trying to rewrite last night into something you can survive without changing your world. I get it.” My thumbs press into her pulse lightly.
“If you want to pretend what happened last night isn’t your new reality, that’s your choice. But it still happened, and you still need to recover. You need to eat. You need to drink. You need your aches and bruises taken care of. And you’re not leaving here until you do. That’s my responsibility.”
She swallows, and though it takes a minute, she finally nods. But I don’t let go of her wrists just yet.
“And when you’re healed up and back to normal physically, but everything’s still all messed up inside…
” I dip my head to catch her eyes again when they drop.
“You may not believe me. You don’t even have to like me.
But you do have to stop trying to carry it alone.
This is not about ‘I told you so.’ When it hits you later—and it will—you come to me.
Because that’s my responsibility, too, and you’re denying me that. I don’t take it lightly.”
I hold her gaze another beat, then let go of her wrists slowly.
I stand and slide her chair in a fraction with my palm on the backrest, not touching her. I pick up the fork and set it in her hand because she’s still frozen.
“Now eat.”