Chapter 8 #2
Not the way I wanted Belle. Not with this bone-deep certainty that she was mine whether she admitted it yet or not.
I moved through the house, checking details I'd already confirmed twice.
Security feeds live.
Doors locked.
Exits monitored.
She could move freely inside these walls, but the moment she tried to leave—
Well.
She wouldn't.
Not after I explained what happened to her father's care if she broke the contract. Not after she understood that running only delayed the inevitable.
I glanced at my watch. Forty minutes until dinner. Forty minutes for her to process. To plan. To convince herself she could endure this without breaking.
She couldn't.
Six months was an eternity when you spent it fighting someone who'd already mapped every possible move.
I headed toward the kitchen, already planning the evening.
Dinner first. Civil. Almost normal.
Then boundaries.
Rules she'd resist and learn, anyway.
Then bed.
Not to fuck her—not tonight.
Tonight was about proximity. About making her understand that privacy ended the moment she signed. That her body, her space, her sleep—all of it belonged to the contract now. Belonged to me.
My phone buzzed again.
I ignored it.
The only person I needed to hear from stood trapped in my bedroom, hating me with every breath.
Perfect.
The scent hit me before I reached the kitchen.
Garlic. Rosemary. Something rich and savory that made my stomach remind me I'd skipped lunch.
Maria stood at the counter, plating with the precision she'd honed over thirty years of professional cooking. Salt-and-pepper hair pulled back, apron spotted with evidence of work I'd never see.
She glanced up when I entered. Smiled the way she always did—warm but not familiar. Professional.
"Perfect timing." She gestured toward the island where two plates waited. "Herb-crusted chicken. Roasted potatoes with thyme. Green beans almondine." A pause while she adjusted garnish I couldn't distinguish from perfect. "The vegetables are from the farmer's market. Should be good."
Should be. Like she'd ever served anything less.
"Smells incredible."
She nodded, already wrapping leftovers with the efficiency of someone who'd learned not to waste motion.
I moved to the cabinet, pulled out the cash I kept separate from everything else. Peeled off twice her usual rate plus extra.
"Storm's coming in." I set the bills on the counter between us. "Get home safe. Take tomorrow off."
Her hands stilled on the containers.
"Mr. Jones, that's—"
"Not negotiable." I kept my voice easy. Firm. "Roads are going to be bad. I don't need you risking your neck."
She looked at the money. Back at me. Something shifted in her expression—gratitude mixed with the kind of knowing that came from raising four kids and spotting bullshit from miles away.
She pocketed the cash without counting it.
"Thank you." She untied her apron, folded it with the same care she brought to everything. "There's extra in the fridge if you need it. Instructions are on the containers."
Like I couldn't reheat food. Like I was still the rookie who'd burned water his first week in the house.
I didn't correct her.
"Appreciate it, Maria."
She gathered her things—purse, jacket, the Tupperware of leftovers I knew she'd take home because I always made sure there were extras.
At the door, she paused.
"Storm's supposed to last through tomorrow night." Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Toward the staircase where Belle still hadn't emerged. "You need anything, you call."
She knew. Didn't ask. Didn't judge.
Just offered.
"Will do."
She left.
The house settled into silence broken only by rain starting to patter against glass.
I stared at the two plates.
Dinner for two.
The domestic normalcy of it would've been funny if it wasn't so calculated.
I checked my watch.
Five minutes.
Then I'd go get her.
My cock throbbed against the zipper of my jeans, a dull ache that had started the moment her palm nearly connected with my face and hadn't eased since.
I adjusted myself, jaw tight, and braced both hands against the counter.
The interaction replayed itself without permission.
The way she'd tried to hit me. No hesitation.
Pure instinct born from rage she couldn't contain.
The shock in her eyes when I caught her wrist. That split second where she'd stumbled forward, chest flush against mine, and her breath had hitched—not from fear.
From something else entirely.
Something she'd die before admitting.
I'd felt it. The way her body responded even as her mind screamed in protest. The tremble that wasn't entirely anger when I'd whispered against her ear what I could do to her. Would do to her.
My grip tightened on the granite.
The memory of her pressed between me, and the wall sent heat coiling low in my gut. The defiance blazing in her eyes even as I'd caged her in. The way her hands had landed on my chest—not pushing, just... feeling.
Testing the reality of what she'd signed away. Who she'd signed herself to.
Six months.
One hundred and eighty-two days of breaking down every wall she'd built, every defense she thought would protect her from this. From me.
From the inevitable conclusion we were both hurtling toward.
She hated me.
Perfect.
Hate burned hotter than indifference. Hate meant she felt something when she looked at me, thought about me, imagined what the next six months would demand.
And beneath that hate, buried so deep she probably didn't recognize it yet—
Want.
I'd seen it flicker across her face when I'd promised to make her scream. When I'd told her exactly how I'd take her apart.
Her pupils had dilated. Her breathing had changed. Her body had betrayed what her mouth refused to admit.
I exhaled slowly, forcing control back into muscles that wanted nothing more than to storm upstairs and claim what was already mine by contract.
Not yet.
Patience.
Discipline.
The same traits that made me lethal on ice would serve me better here.
I checked my watch again.
Time.
I straightened, rolled my shoulders, and headed for the stairs.
Soon, I'd have her across from me at dinner, furious and trapped and desperately pretending this was survivable.
And after that?
After that, I'd have her in my bed.
Close enough to smell. To hear. To remind her with every breath that privacy had ended the moment she'd signed her name.
My cock pulsed in agreement.
Soon.