Chapter 8 Olog
OLOG
Imove on pure instinct.
One second, I'm sitting rigid and controlled beside Bliss, maintaining the professional distance I've forced between us all day. The next, I'm on my feet, my body angled directly in front of hers, intercepting the full trajectory of the wine as it arcs through the air.
The cold liquid hits my chest with enough force to splash, soaking through my pristine white dress shirt in an instant. The fabric clings to my skin, the red wine spreading across the expensive cotton like blood, but Bliss stays dry behind me, protected by the sheer width of my shoulders.
The terrace is silent.
Charlotte stands frozen, her empty wine glass dangling from her fingers, her mouth open in shock. She wasn't expecting me to move. She wasn't expecting anyone to move. The stumble was deliberate, the angle too perfect, the timing too calculated.
I saw it the moment her heel shifted.
I lock my eyes on hers, and I don't blink.
My expression doesn't shift. I don't raise my voice. I don't need to. I let the full weight of my presence settle over her, the kind of cold, predatory focus that makes prey animals freeze mid-step, and I watch the color drain from her face.
Her bottom lip trembles.
"I—I didn't—" she stammers.
I take a single step forward.
She flinches.
"You will apologize to Bliss," I say, my voice low and flat and utterly devoid of warmth. "Sincerely. Now."
Charlotte's eyes fill with tears. Real ones, this time, born of genuine fear rather than performative shock. She turns to Bliss, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry, Bliss, I—"
"Save it," Bliss mutters behind me, her voice tight and raw.
I glance back at her.
She's staring down at her lap, her hands trembling, her shoulders hunched inward. The wine didn't touch her dress, but the humiliation did. The room is still silent, every guest watching, every conversation suspended, and I can see the exact moment it crushes her.
Her face crumples.
She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone, and bolts.
She doesn't look at anyone. She just moves, fast and desperate, weaving through the tables and disappearing through the terrace doors into the interior of the resort.
I don't hesitate.
I follow.
The resort is a maze of marble hallways and gold-trimmed doorways, but I track her easily.
I'm taller than every other guest by nearly a foot, and I can see over the clusters of startled wedding attendees who scatter as I pass.
I catch glimpses of her dark hair, pale dress, the sharp click of her heels on the polished floor—and I move faster, cutting through the crowd with the same efficiency I'd use to extract a client from a hostile environment.
She rounds a corner.
I still follow.
She pushes through a heavy wooden door marked with a discreet bronze plaque that reads Women's Lounge, and the door swings shut behind her.
I pause outside, my hand flat against the wood, my chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.
Professional protocol dictates I wait.
I should give her space. I should respect the boundary. I should stand outside this door like the hired protection I am and let her compose herself in privacy.
But the sound that comes through the door—a choked, broken sob—obliterates every rule I've ever followed.
I push the door open and step inside.
The restroom is absurdly luxurious, all white marble and gold fixtures, soft lighting reflecting off polished mirrors. Bliss is bent over one of the sinks, her hands braced on the counter, her shoulders shaking with silent, desperate sobs.
She doesn't hear me enter.
I close the door behind me, reach back, and slide the heavy brass deadbolt firmly into place.
The sound echoes through the space.
Bliss gasps and spins around, her eyes red-rimmed and streaming, her carefully applied makeup smudged and ruined. She gazes at me, her mouth opening and closing, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
"Olog, you can't…this is the women's—"
"I don't care," I say flatly.
She blinks, stunned into silence.
I cross the gap between us in three long strides, and I don't stop until I'm standing directly in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look up at me.
Her scent hits me immediately—champagne and jasmine and the faint, acidic tang of panic—and my chest tightens with a visceral, overwhelming need to fix this.
"Are you hurt?" I ask.
She shakes her head, a fresh tear sliding down her cheek. "No, I'm—I'm fine, I just—"
"You are not fine."
Her face crumples again, and she presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying and failing to stop crying. Her voice comes out muffled and broken. "God, this is so humiliating. I'm sorry, I just—I can't do this anymore, Olog, I can't—"
"You have nothing to apologize for."
She drops her hands, staring up at me with raw, unfiltered anguish.
"Yes, I do! I hired you to pretend to be my boyfriend, and now you're covered in wine because my ex's fiancée is a psychopath, and you've been miserable all day, and I—" Her voice cracks.
"I know you regret last night. I know you think I'm some desperate, pathetic client who can't keep her hands to herself, and you're probably counting down the hours until this nightmare contract is over, and I just—"
I grab her face.
Both hands, cupping her jaw, tilting her head up so she has no choice but to look directly into my eyes.
She goes completely still.
"Listen to me," I say, my voice low and rough and stripped of every professional filter I've maintained since the moment I woke up this morning. "I do not regret last night. I have not been miserable. And you are not pathetic."
Her breath hitches.
"Then why—" she whispers. "Why have you been acting like you can't stand to be near me?"
"Because I crossed a line."
Her brows furrow. "What line?"
"The professional one," I say, my thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, feeling the wet heat of her tears against my skin. "You hired me to provide a service, Bliss. A performance. I am supposed to play a role, execute the contract, and leave. I am not supposed to—"
I stop.
She's staring at me with wide, glistening eyes, her lips parted, waiting.
I force myself to finish.
"I am not supposed to want you."
The words land between us like a detonation.
Her eyes go even wider.
"But I do," I continue, my voice dropping into a rough, guttural register I can't control anymore. "I woke up this morning with your body wrapped around mine, and it took every ounce of discipline I possess not to roll you onto your back and—"
I stop again, my jaw clenching, my control fraying.
She's breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her pupils dilated.
"And what?" she whispers.
I lean down until my forehead is nearly touching hers, until my breath ghosts across her lips, until the last shred of professional distance between us is nothing but a fragile, crumbling illusion.
"And claim you," I finish.
Her breath catches.
We're frozen like that, suspended in the heavy, electric silence, and I can feel the exact moment the dynamic between us shifts irrevocably.
She's not my client anymore.
She's mine.
"Olog," she breathes, her voice trembling. "It doesn’t matter about the contract. Who cares about the performance. I just—I need—"
"Tell me what you need."
Her hands come up, fisting in the ruined fabric of my wine-soaked shirt, and she pulls me down until our mouths are a breath apart.
"You," she whispers. "I need you."
I kiss her.
It's not gentle. It's not professional. It's raw and desperate and fueled by a full day of forced distance and unspoken tension, and the moment our lips meet, I lose the last fragile thread of control I've been clinging to.
She gasps against my mouth, and I swallow the sound, one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her waist and hauling her flush against me.
She's so small compared to me, her body fitting perfectly against mine, and the feeling of her soft curves pressed to me sends a primal, possessive surge through my veins.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers, and she makes a sound, half whimper, half moan, that goes straight to my groin.
My hand tightens in her hair.
She arches into me, her nails digging into my shoulders through the wet fabric of my shirt, and I lift her effortlessly, setting her on the marble counter so she's closer to my height.
Her legs wrap around me instantly.
I groan into her mouth, my hips pressing forward, and she gasps again, her head falling back as I drag my lips down the line of her throat. She tastes like champagne and salt, and I can't get enough.
"Olog," she breathes, her hands sliding into my hair, tugging hard enough to make my scalp prickle. "God, yes—"
I bite down gently on the curve of her neck, and she moans, loud and unrestrained, the sound echoing off the marble walls.
My control snaps.
I pull back just enough to look at her flushed face, panting, her lipstick smeared and her eyes dark with need—and I have to force myself to speak through the haze of raw, primal hunger clouding my brain.
"Bliss," I rasp. "If we do this—if I touch you the way I want to touch you—there is no going back to the contract. No more pretending. Do you understand?"
She nods frantically, her hands already tugging at the buttons of my ruined shirt. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I want this. I want you."
I capture her wrists, pinning them gently against the mirror behind her, and she whimpers, her hips rolling against me in a way that makes my vision blur.
"Say it again," I demand.
"I want you," she gasps. "Please, Olog, I—"
I release her wrists and kiss her again, harder this time, claiming her mouth with a possessiveness I've never allowed myself to feel for anyone. Her hands fly to me, yanking the buttons of my shirt open with enough force that one pops off and clatters across the marble floor.
I shrug out of the ruined shirt and let it drop, and her hands are on my bare skin immediately, tracing the lines of my tattoos, her touch sending sparks of heat racing through my nerves.
"God," she whispers, staring at my chest. "You're—"
"Too much?" I finish roughly.
"Perfect," she corrects, her voice breathless.
I growl low in my throat, my hands sliding down to grip her thighs, spreading them wider, pulling her to the very counter. The silk of her dress bunches between us, and I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric.
She's trembling.
I pause, forcing myself to meet her eyes, to give her one last chance to stop this.
"Bliss," I say, my voice hoarse. "Are you sure?"
She doesn't answer with words.
She grabs my face and kisses me with a fierce, desperate intensity that obliterates every lingering doubt, her legs tightening around me, her body arching into mine.
And I surrender.