Chapter 9
Liev
By the time we pull up to the fifth property, I’m already bracing myself for the word “no.” She’s been saying it all fucking day.
The realtor chatters beside us as she unlocks the front door.
Her voice is bright and optimistic as she lists off square footage and resale value.
I only half-listen. My attention stays on Ryder, and the way she stands a step behind me with her arms folded tight across her chest, expression shuttered.
For two days we’ve been doing this dance.
Drive. Tour. Reject.
Repeat.
We barely make it through the threshold before she exhales.
“No.”
The realtor freezes mid-sentence. “Oh—was there something specific you didn’t like about it?”
Ryder shrugs like a bored teenager. “Just doesn’t feel right.”
That’s it.
No explanation. No detail. Nothing I can fix. It doesn’t matter that I have the money to change literally anything about this house. Or any of the other houses we’ve looked at.
She’s said no to them all. Every. Single. One.
The realtor looks at me like I should override my wife’s input, treat her like a toddler. Surely it happens regularly. I return the look with one of my own that clarifies that I won’t be forcing my hand.
But frustration presses against my ribs.
This is the fifth house in two days, and she hasn’t liked a single one. She says she’s not interested within thirty seconds of her stepping inside. She won’t articulate what she wants, won’t give criteria, won’t even pretend to care. She just says “no” and drifts away.
It shouldn’t bother me this much.
But it does.
Privately, I wonder if this is about dinner the other night. About the way things shifted between us. About the way I called her my queen and meant it more than I should have.
Maybe it got too close. Too intimate.
Maybe this is her way of clawing back control.
I rub a hand over my jaw and force my tone level. “We’re already here. We’re seeing the rest of it.”
Her eyes flick to mine, annoyed.
“I said—”
“I heard you,” I cut in. “Humor me.”
The realtor visibly relaxes and launches back into her pitch as we move through the living room.
The house isn’t obscene or showy. It’s three thousand square feet with clean lines and an open kitchen. Comfortable, not decadent. Nothing like Hinto’s palace on the water with its marble floors and gold fixtures.
This place feels livable. Safe and private, on enough acreage and with enough landscaping to feel outside of bustling Miami but still close.
I watch Ryder.
She pretends to inspect her nails or scroll on her phone, but I catch the look on her face when she sees something she likes.
There is a flicker in her gaze when we pass the luxurious bathroom, a slight pause at the fenced backyard, and the way her shoulders loosen in the kitchen like she’s imagining actually using it.
She likes it. She just refuses to admit it.
Her little act is starting to drive me insane.
She trails her fingers along the counter. “It’s fine, I guess, but it’s not exactly impressive. For what you’re paying, shouldn’t it look more expensive?”
Something ugly and old stirs in my chest.
I see another woman in another life, smiling too wide while she picks out restaurants based on who might see us there. Hear her voice asking about bigger cars, flashier watches, and better neighborhoods.
All surface. No substance.
Before I can stop myself, the words come out sharp: “You’re starting to sound like my ex.”
Ryder freezes, her eyes narrowing.
We haven’t discussed this part of my past. She must know about it, though. There’s no way she relied only on her father’s information, is there? Surely she knows that once, briefly, I was engaged.
I continue, already irritated. “She only cared about appearances: how much things cost, how often I took her out. We only looked at penthouse apartments when we were looking.”
Her head snaps toward me. The color drains from her face, then rushes back hot.
Jealousy.
There’s something satisfying about that.
“So I’m not your first wife then,” she says stiffly, finally actually looking at our surroundings because she doesn’t want to look at me.
“I didn’t marry her. You can do your research later; I’ll even give you her name. As far as I know, she’s somewhere in Colorado, married to the owner of a handful of ski resorts.”
The realtor’s phone rings just as the tension between us thickens into something almost visible.
She glances at the screen with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry—this is my broker. I need to take this.”
“Take your time.”
She slips out the sliding glass doors onto the patio, her voice muffled as she launches into polite, professional chatter.
The moment the door shuts, the house goes quiet.
Ryder stands near the hallway, arms crossed, chin tipped up like she’s daring me to say something stupid. Light from the windows catches the bare line of her shoulders, the soft curve of her throat. She looks small and strong, but furious and beautiful all at once.
I shouldn’t notice those things as often as I do.
I shouldn’t care.
But my body has never been particularly obedient when it comes to her.
“You’re not fooling me,” I say finally.
“About what?”
“You like this place.”
She scoffs, but there’s a crack in the performance now. “I don’t want something that screams money.”
“I know,” I say.
Her gaze flicks to mine, surprised.
“I don’t want that either.”
We stand there, the air thick between us, both of us breathing like we’ve just gotten back from a run.
“I think you’re pushing me away on purpose.”
“And what if I am?”
I step closer before I can stop myself. She doesn’t retreat. That’s the problem with Ryder; she never retreats.
“You think if you annoy me enough,” I murmur, “I’ll walk away.”
“Maybe,” she says. Her voice wobbles just slightly.
It hits me then: the fear under all of this. The panic. The girl who doesn’t trust.
I reach out and catch her wrist. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I say, voice low.
“Big talk for an old man.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Careful.”
“Or what?”
She tilts her chin, defiant, but her pupils are blown wide. Her lips parted as if she were already bracing.
I guide her backward down the hallway without really thinking about it, past the open doors, and into the nearest bedroom. The space smells faintly of fresh paint, dust, and something clean. It’s unfinished.
Empty.
Waiting.
My pulse pounds.
“This the kind of room you imagine?” I murmur near her ear. “Where you plan to drive me crazy? Where I get to watch you undress?”
Her breath stutters. “You’re starting to lose control, Pakhan.”
“Am I?”
The patio door slides faintly in the distance, the realtor’s voice drifting through the house.
Too close.
The risk makes everything sharper.
Ryder’s hands fist in my shirt. “She’s right outside,” she whispers.
“Then be quiet,” I answer.
What follows is quick, desperate, and charged. I want to have her on a bed. My thumb snaps the button of her jeans open, and I push my hand down into them. Ryder’s breath caught with the awareness that we could be interrupted at any moment.
I manage to ignore my need for release and rub my knuckles against her clit just to watch her shiver.
Neither of us speaks. In complete silence, I slip two fingers into her pussy and fuck her with determination and restraint. Machine-like, demanding, not letting her move. I pin her hips under my other hand as her breath hitches and her mouth drops open.
When she comes, I kiss her, swallowing the desperate moan she lets out. She tastes like adrenaline and stubbornness. She grips my shoulders like I’m the only solid thing in the world, and something possessive and primal tears through me.
I don’t let it go further than that.
If I do, I won’t stop.
Eventually we straighten ourselves, adjusting clothes, trying to look like two adults who definitely didn’t just cross a line in a stranger’s listing.
Her cheeks are flushed.
Mine probably aren’t any better.
We walk back down the hallway like nothing happened. The realtor is still on the patio, thankfully oblivious and texting furiously.
At the front door, Ryder pauses. Her head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing toward the street. From where I stand inside, I can’t see further than bougainvillea climbing up a shoulder-high brick wall.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says after a beat. “Thought I saw someone watching the house.”
My shoulders tighten. “You sure?”
“Probably nothing,” she repeats, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
I file it away anyway. Nothing is ever nothing in our world.
* * *
Later that night, long after we’ve gone back to the hotel, and she’s showering, I sit alone with my phone in my hand.
I can still picture Ryder in that bedroom, pressed against the wall, breath shaky, eyes dark.
I can’t imagine her anywhere else now.
The realtor answers groggily. “Hello?”
“I’ll take it,” I say.
“The property?”
“Yes. That’s our house.”