Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Steam still clung to the corners of the mirror, the last trace of her shower curling in the air. Bea stood at the vanity, towel wrapped around her body, head tilted as she dragged the dryer through the length of her hair.
The bathroom door opened. She caught Rafael’s reflection—bare chested, black trousers open on his hips, as if he’d gotten distracted halfway through dressing.
The brush slowed in her hair. His eyes met hers in the mirror, and it was not a good-morning Tuesday sort of look.
Rafael didn’t speak as he came up behind her. His heat reached her before his hands did. Slid over the towel, down her hips, with the kind of ownership that made her knees feel unreliable.
“You’re supposed to be getting ready for work,” she said, watching him in the mirror.
“I am.” His mouth curved, but his eyes never left hers. One hand flattened against her stomach. “But there’s something I want to see first.”
She almost laughed, except his hand slipped lower, under the edge of the towel, lifting it.
“Rafael…” It was meant to be a warning. It sounded like an invitation. And that was exactly how he interpreted it.
His fingers found her. She set the brush and hair dryer down blindly, then wrapped both arms around to hold onto him. He was solid and warm behind her.
“You’re wet,” he told her. “Were you thinking about me, or does it happen when I enter the room?”
She could feel the blush rise, her hips straining into his touch. Her focus was scattered in all directions.
His clever hand slid up to cup her breast beneath the towel, and with one small tug forward, it fell away completely.
“I don’t know. Both.”
He hummed in approval. His thumb dragged lazily, slightly rough against sensitive skin. Her knees went weak. “Open for me, baby.”
She did, because she always did. Because he made it impossible not to.
The glass caught them—his tan body towering behind her, six foot three of lean, sculpted control, every muscle tensed. Her reflection was smaller, golden-fair against him. She was naked, an offering; he was shirtless, a demigod.
Then, a single word: “Watch.”
Heavy-lidded, she obeyed. It was almost too much. His arm flexed as he worked, forearm corded, veins rising. His other hand cupped her breast, thumb teasing the peaked center, keeping her anchored with maddening control.
His body enveloped hers, yet all that power was ruthlessly restrained and singularly focused on her pleasure.
Her lips were parted, throat bared. He leaned down and bit gently. She wanted to hide from the hunger she saw, but couldn’t.
It was unbearable and engrossing all at once.
Her hips jerked up. “Raf—”
His fingers had found the exact pressure she needed. She dug her nails more deeply into the planes of his back, fighting to stay upright.
“I’ve got you,” he assured her. “Don’t look away.”
The pleasure built in layers, every subtle play of his fingers dismantling her. The wave rose and rose, and finally crashed over her. She let out a sound she’d never make anywhere else. Her eyes squeezed shut.
Her body sagged back into his. He hadn’t moved, just held her steady, his hand still resting where it had undone her.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured against her skin, kissing one shoulder, then the other. “You don’t even know what you just did to me.”
She opened her eyes. He wasn’t lowering his pants. “What about you?”
He shook his head, voice thick. “Not yet.”
Her head tipped back against him. “Really?”
His hand ran up her ribs, slow, possessive. “Really. You’ll get the rest tonight. So will I.” Then he stepped away, already reaching for his shirt. “So you’d better come back.”
By the time Rafael came downstairs, coffee steamed on the counter and Bea was packing their lunch boxes.
He wrapped his arms around her, propping his chin on the top of her head. Inhaled. “Smells good.”
“Bibimbap.” The bottom layer was rice, topped with kimchi, leftover banchan, quick-fried beef mince, and her pickled carrots. A fried egg, gochujang, and sesame seeds finished the stack. His was twice the size of hers.
“Shake the dosirak before you eat,” she told him. “You don’t even have to microwave it, just bring it with you to your site visit.”
He smiled against her hair. “The guys will be jealous.”
“Don’t let them steal your food,” she joked, tipping her head back to catch his eye. Then a small crease formed between her brows. “Do you think Nico’s eating okay?”
“He’s only been a soldier for a day and you’re already worried.” He kissed her hair.
She’d cried when they said goodbye, while Nico had given her a manly hug, called her dramatic, and pretended not to be glassy-eyed. He’d be eligible for leave in six months, but after three years of seeing him twice a week, it felt like losing a limb.
“When will he find out if he qualifies for Officer?” She sniffed.
“Three months,” Rafael said, taking a sip of her coffee. “That’s the length of basic training. After that, they’re sorted into specializations—he’ll do combat and recon if he’s muscle, intelligence if he’s wired for analysis, command school if he’s shown he’s a leader.”
She paused, sealing the last lunch box. “What if he’s a bit of everything?”
“Then the Republic will decide what it needs most,” Rafael said. “He has the same chance as every man there to prove himself and earn what he wants.”
Bea nudged him with her hip. “Do you think he can do it?”
“That kid’s been sprinting on adrenaline since he was ten. If they can channel it, he’ll be running the place by year’s end.”
RAFAEL
“We’re less than two weeks out,” the site manager reported. “Just fittings and finishings left. Then we hand it over for you to beautify.”
Four weeks behind schedule, but it couldn’t be helped. Early fall’s relentless rain all the way back in March had submerged the site and every deadline with it.
“I’m leaving for Thailand in a couple of days. I’ll take the keys when I’m back.”
“Perfect.” The site manager shook his hand and left.
“Talk to me, gentlemen.”
Rafael’s head of security studied the upper balcony. “Clean sightlines. Glad you took my advice on reinforced glass for the south corner.”
“Advice?” Rafael echoed wryly. “I thought you’d issued an order.”
“We’ll need more men,” Cain continued. “Channing’s with Ms. Cruz, and he’ll need backup soon. But ten acres is too much for four to cover, even with cameras.”
“How many?”
“Four permanent, one float,” Cain replied. “Nine total. Enough to run three shifts and keep every line covered.”
Rafael bit back a curse. Six more men in a country that barely needed policing. It wasn’t money that bothered him—it was the intrusion. This place was supposed to be a sanctuary.
“It’ll feel crowded at first,” Cain acknowledged. “We’ll train them in your way. You’ll forget they’re there until you need them.”
Voss, standing a few steps behind, scanned the property. “You’re exposed on every side but the sea. Beautiful, but a nightmare to secure.”
Rafael gave a single nod: permission to proceed.
“I’ll start the hunt tomorrow,” Cain said, with the clipped tone of a man who already had names in mind.
“We’ll make it ready for her, boss,” Voss added.
He pictured her there, the sea at her back, the horizon turning from blue to gold. “Make sure of it.”
RAFAEL
The fourth time Anurak Suthiwat paged through the contract, Rafael stopped pretending patience.
The suite was glass and gold, thirty floors up, the Bangkok skyline hot against the windows. Aides drifted in with trays of fruit and cold towels, but nothing cooled the room. The smell of lemongrass couldn’t cut the humidity or the waiting.
Rafael leaned back, coat off, shirt sleeves rolled.
Max was beside him, watching Anurak and probably knowing the exact clause he was reading since he’d written the contract.
Laurent watched the room instead, weighing silence, sweat, and ego with the ease of a man used to making them all work for him.
Anurak didn’t care about margins. Rafael could see it in the way the man’s eyes kept sliding from the paper to the window, to the dark outline of the river. Numbers weren’t the sticking point.
“Your terms are generous,” Anurak said finally, in careful English. His accent was light. “But my family has lived too long under the Chaisiri shadow. This paper does not erase it.”
The two brothers—Prasert and Kittisak Chaisiri—weren’t in the room, but their presence was. It sat at the table like a curse, generations deep.
Rafael studied him: the clench of his hands when he spoke of the brothers, stiff shoulders as if he carried an unbearable burden.
Five days of ceremonies and posturing dressed up as progress. Time to change the rules.
He set his elbows on the table, the small motion enough to draw every eye. “If you could have anything, what would it be?”
The room stilled.
Anurak’s head cracked to his, eyes locking on him like a man hearing his own language spoken for the first time. “Domination.”
“Lucky for you,” Rafael said, “that’s my country’s motto. What form do you prefer?”
“You know Muay Thai?”
“Yes.”
“Are you good?”
Rafael’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Yes.”
For a long moment, Anurak said nothing. Deciding whether he was facing another polished foreigner or something dangerous.
“Then fight alongside me.”
The air shifted. A pen hit the table and stayed there. Max’s jaw tightened; Laurent straightened, amusement in his eyes.
This was another language he understood, older than finance, older than civilized boardrooms.
Rafael leaned back in his seat. “We win, you sign.”
Anurak’s gaze didn’t break. He searched Rafael’s face for hesitation, and found none. His hand twitched once, like a man already picturing the first strike. For a heartbeat, no one breathed. The brass Buddha in the corner seemed to be waiting for the answer.
Anurak extended his hand. For the first time that day, his voice held warmth, not just respect. “We win the match, you win Bangkok.”
Rafael shook it. Then Anurak rose, and his entourage with him. The room emptied, whispered preparations already in motion.
Max crossed his arms. “Do you understand what you just did? If you lose, the deal collapses. Also, you’re not Thai. This isn’t your war to step into.”
Rafael poured himself water, drank it down. “Deals live or die on what men believe. He needs to believe I’m with him.”
“He’s not reckless, Max,” Laurent pointed out. “He’s just bored. You should thank him—it’ll end faster this way.”
“As your lawyer, I strongly object,” Max grumped. Then he gave up and smiled. “As your friend…I think we’d better spar tonight. You’re rusty.”
Incoming Call: Rafael
“Hey,” she said. “Just finished work?”
“Little Bea.” His voice threaded through the line like a caress. “Were you asleep?”
“Not quite. Soon. How’s the deal coming? All signed?”
“Almost,” he said. “I just need to win a fight first.”
She must have misheard him. “I’m sorry—what?”
“I offered Anurak my fists. Him and me, against his rivals. We win, he signs.”
She pressed her palm to her forehead, wanting to laugh, wanting to scream. Rafael casually agreeing to second a duel like some gorgeous, infuriating throwback to another century was, for some reason, not improbable.
“Of course you did.” Her eyes closed, and she shook her head. “Is he any good?”
“Let’s hope so,” Rafael replied.
Bea’s pulse shot straight into triple digits. Her eyes popped open. “What do you mean ‘hope so’? You didn’t check before agreeing to fight with him?”
He chuckled, a sound that soothed and distressed in the same beat. “Relax. It’ll be fine. But I need you here. Come to Thailand.”
“Really?” She paused. “You’ve got Max and Laurent already. They’d be much more useful to you in a fight.”
“Studies show watching your boyfriend win Muay Thai fights increases attraction.” His voice was low and dark, mimicking her line from the summer fair.
She exhaled a small laugh, but her heart was tangled with nerves. “When is it?”
“In two days. You and Channing will land on Thursday. After, we’ll spend the long weekend sightseeing.”
“You’ve booked the tickets already?”
“You’re in seat two-B.”
Group Chat: Therapy Club
BEA: I regret to inform you all that we can no longer attend the reunion in Westhelm
NAOMI: WHAT? WHY NOT??
BEA: Because I need to fly to Thailand to witness my boyfriend help the Thai heir he’s negotiating with settle a fifty year turf war
ISABEL: …I was ready to rip into her, but as far as excuses go that’s actually pretty good
NAOMI: Details!
BEA: Confidential, obviously.
GEORGINA: Not the deal, Bea. Are you worried, or turned on?
BEA: Both
LILLIAN: Please clarify what “help” means in this context. Diplomatic dinner?
BEA: Muay Thai. Four men, and their knees and elbows.
ISABEL: Probably the most Griffin style help I’ve ever heard of
NAOMI: Could you livestream it?
BEA: Hmmm. Doubtful.
LILLIAN: How are you going to get time off work?
BEA: Technically, I’ll be “working remotely”
ISABEL: Translation: her boyfriend’s a billionaire. Employment is optional.
BEA: Excuse me, I’ll be doing international field research.
NAOMI: What’s the research question?
BEA: “How many abs does it take to negotiate peace?”
GEORGINA: I’d read that. But it better be a picture book.