Chapter 21
Belle
The stack of new arrivals sat on the counter, spines facing every direction, waiting to be sorted. I pulled one free—something about lost love and second chances—and turned it over in my hands without reading the back copy.
My brain refused to cooperate.
Last night looped endlessly: his voice dropping low, commanding. My body arcing toward him like it belonged to someone else. The heat pooling low in my stomach, spreading through my limbs until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything except feel.
And the begging.
God, the begging.
I'd meant every word.
That was the part that hollowed me out worse than shame ever could.
I set the book down harder than necessary and reached for another, forcing my eyes to focus on the author's name. Fiction. Contemporary. Shelve it in the back corner near the window displays.
Except my hands trembled when I picked it up, and the memory crashed over me again—his fingers threading through my hair, his breath against my ear, the way he'd whispered my name like it was something precious instead of something he owned.
I wanted him.
Not the contract forcing my compliance.
Not the money keeping my father alive.
Not even the punishment I'd earned by skipping his game.
Just him.
The realization sat heavy in my chest, impossible to ignore. I'd crossed some invisible line last night, stopped fighting long enough to admit—if only to myself—that part of me craved exactly what he was doing to me.
And I hated that part with everything I had.
Hated how my pulse quickened when he walked into a room.
Hated the flutter low in my stomach when his voice gentled, rare and devastating.
Hated that I kept wondering what it would feel like if he touched me again—not as punishment, not as dominance, but as something softer.
Something real.
I grabbed the next book blindly, checked the spine without processing the title, and shoved it onto the nearest shelf.
Wrong section. Wrong genre entirely.
I pulled it back out, breath unsteady, and stared at the cover until the letters blurred together.
The truth was simple and horrifying: I wanted more. More of his hands on my skin. More of his control wrapped around me like armor. More of the twisted safety I felt when he held me in the dark, possessive and certain and utterly inescapable.
I wanted him to want me—not just my body, not just my obedience.
Me.
The admission cracked something open inside my chest, spilling shame and longing in equal measure.
I set the book down carefully and pressed both palms flat against the counter.
Alphabetizing wouldn't fix this.
Nothing would.
The bell rang.
I didn't look up immediately, muscle memory pulling the words from my throat before my brain caught up.
"Welcome in—"
Then his voice cut through the quiet like a blade. Low. Unmistakable. Final. "We're closing."
My head snapped up fast enough to make my vision swim.
Gideon stood framed in the doorway—dark joggers, hoodie pulled low, hair still damp from whatever workout he'd punished himself with this morning.
But it was his eyes that stopped my breath.
Something dark and unreadable churned behind them, something that made the air between us feel charged and dangerous.
I set my jaw, forcing steel into my spine. "The store doesn't close for eight hours."
"It does today."
The certainty in his voice sent fury racing through my veins. I laughed—sharp, bitter, furious. "You don't own my business."
He tilted his head slowly, studying me like I'd said something amusing. Something na?ve.
"I'm paying for the renovations." His voice stayed calm, reasonable, devastating. "I'm paying for your bills. I'm keeping your doors open. I think I have some say."
My throat closed around words I couldn't form. Because that was true. Every brutal word of it.
And I hated him for it. Hated myself more for needing it.
"Get out."
He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
Instead, he crossed to the front windows with that deliberate, predatory ease that made my pulse spike. His hand moved to the sign, flipping it to CLOSED with a soft click that echoed too loud in the sudden silence.
The lock followed. A decisive turn.
Final.
"I'll compensate you for the lost hours." He shrugged like this was nothing, like he hadn't just stolen my autonomy again. "Double, if it makes you feel better."
It didn't.
It never did.
It made me feel owned. Claimed. Erased.
My hands curled into fists against the counter, nails biting into my palms hard enough to leave marks I'd notice later.
"Why are you here?"
My voice came out smaller than I wanted. Shakier.
Gideon turned from the door, eyes tracking over me slowly—not hungry, not possessive. Something else. Something that made my stomach twist with dread and anticipation in equal measure.
"Because I want to be."
He didn't grab me. Didn't crowd me against the counter or cage me in with his body like I'd expected—like I'd braced for.
He just… wandered. Long fingers trailing over book spines with a gentleness I'd never seen from him. Not commanding. Not taking. Just touching, like he was searching for something he couldn't name.
I stayed behind the counter, watching, wary as prey tracking a predator that had suddenly stopped hunting.
He paused in the classics section—the shelves I'd organized myself, the ones I'd carefully curated because they mattered more than the bestsellers or the seasonal displays.
The books that spoke to something deeper.
His hand stopped on an old paperback. Faded cover. Cracked spine. The kind of book that had been read so many times the pages fell open to favorite passages without prompting.
"My mother read this."
The words came quiet. Distant.
I blinked, grip loosening on the edge of the counter.
He'd never mentioned his mother. Not once. Not in any conversation, any argument, any moment of twisted intimacy we'd shared.
I didn't know if she was alive or dead or somewhere in between.
"Every night," he continued, turning the book over in his hands like it was fragile. Breakable. "Even when she was too tired. Even when my father yelled at her for it."
My chest tightened.
I should've stayed silent. Should've let the moment pass without comment, without offering him anything that resembled understanding.
But something in his voice—something raw and unguarded—held me frozen.
He traced the worn edges of the cover, thumb moving absently over faded lettering.
"She said books made places safe."
The crack in his voice was barely there.
A hairline fracture.
But I heard it. Felt it settle somewhere behind my ribs where I didn't want it to live.
Gideon placed the book back on the shelf with aching precision. Too carefully. Like returning something sacred to an altar he had no right approaching.
The gesture hurt to watch. Made him human in ways I couldn't afford to acknowledge.
Because seeing him like this—quiet and almost vulnerable, haunted by memories he carried in silence—made hating him infinitely harder.
And I needed the hatred.
It was the only armor I had left.
He turned, lips parting around a question I'd never hear—and froze.
His gaze dropped to my throat.
Focused.
Absolute.
I felt the weight of it before I understood what he was seeing: the faint shadow of purple beneath my jaw, the mark his mouth had left last night when he'd pulled me against him and claimed that spot like territory.
I'd worn my hair down deliberately. Applied concealer with shaking hands this morning.
Apparently not enough.
His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the green until almost nothing remained but hunger and something fiercer.
He moved toward me.
One step.
Deliberate.
I retreated instinctively, spine hitting the counter before I'd consciously decided to run. The edge bit into my lower back, grounding and trapping me simultaneously.
He followed.
Slow.
Patient.
Like he had all the time in the world and knew I had nowhere left to go.
My breath stuttered when he reached me, when his knuckle lifted my chin with devastating gentleness—forcing my face up, exposing the bruise fully to the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
"You've been covering this."
Not a question.
An accusation wrapped in dark satisfaction.
Heat flooded my cheeks, shame crawling up my throat in a wave I couldn't suppress. "It's embarrassing."
His nostrils flared slightly, jaw tightening with something primal and possessive that made my stomach drop and clench simultaneously.
"It's mine."
The proprietary edge sliced through me—hot and humiliating and unbearably intimate.
My pulse jumped visibly beneath his knuckle. And worse—far worse—warmth pooled low in my belly, spreading through my limbs like poison I'd willingly swallowed.
Something in me wanted to lean into that claim. Wanted to belong to someone so completely they'd mark me and mean it and expect the world to see what they'd done.
I hated that part of myself with volcanic intensity.
I jerked my chin free, breath coming too fast. "Don't do that."
He didn't grab me again. Didn't push. Just stood there, close enough I could feel his body heat, eyes tracking over my face with methodical precision.
Not angry.
Not commanding.
Just… looking.
Like I was a puzzle he'd been circling for months, finally close enough to examine the edges. Like I was a secret written in a language he was determined to translate, no matter how long it took.
The intensity of his focus made something deep inside me want to crack open and spill every truth I'd been hoarding in the dark.
I swallowed hard, hands clenching the counter behind me until my knuckles went white.
"Stop staring at me like that."
His mouth curved. Barely. "Like what?"
"Like you're trying to understand me."
Something shifted behind his eyes—surprise, maybe. Recognition. "Would that be so terrible?"
Yes.
Because understanding led to knowing.