Chapter 7
seven
. . .
I wake to the whisper of silk against my skin and sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.
For a moment, I forget where I am—this bed too large, these sheets too smooth, this room too quiet to be mine.
Then memory floods back in a rush of heated skin and possessive hands, and I remember.
I'm in Roman Wolfe's bed. I'm Roman Wolfe's possession.
For the next twenty-nine days, at least.
The space beside me is empty but still warm. Roman can't have been gone long. I stretch, wincing at the pleasant soreness between my thighs—evidence of last night's activities that my body seems determined to remind me of with every movement.
Last night. My cheeks heat at the memory.
I'd expected clinical efficiency from Roman—the same controlled precision he applies to everything.
Instead, I got raw hunger, barely leashed power, a man coming undone in ways I suspect few have witnessed.
The way he'd looked at me when he was inside me, like he'd discovered something precious and dangerous all at once. ..
I press my hands to my burning face. This wasn't supposed to happen.
The arrangement was meant to be transactional—my body in exchange for financial security.
Clinical. Detached. I wasn't supposed to enjoy his possession so thoroughly, wasn't supposed to crave more even as my body still tingles from the last encounter.
The bedroom door opens, and Roman enters carrying a tray.
He's already dressed for the day in tailored gray slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle.
His hair is damp from a shower, and that subtle cologne clings to him like an expensive shadow.
"You're awake," he observes, his eyes taking in my disheveled state with evident satisfaction. "Good. We have a full day ahead."
I sit up, clutching the silk sheet to my chest in a belated attempt at modesty. The action amuses him—one eyebrow arching as if to remind me he's already seen, touched, and tasted every inch of what I'm trying to hide.
"I brought breakfast," he says, placing the tray across my lap. Fresh fruit, yogurt, whole grain toast, and coffee arranged with the same precision he applies to everything. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
There's something in his tone that makes my stomach flip with equal parts anticipation and unease. I take a sip of coffee—prepared exactly as I like it, though I don't recall telling him my preference.
"Thank you," I say, because my mother raised me with manners, even for men who technically own me for a month.
Roman sits on the edge of the bed, watching me eat with that intense focus that makes me feel like I'm being studied under a microscope. "Did you sleep well?" he asks.
"Yes," I admit. "Your bed is... comfortable."
"Our bed," he corrects. "And yes, it is.
I had the mattress custom-made. One thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
Hypoallergenic pillows with just the right balance of support and softness.
" A slight smile curves his lips. "I believe in investing in quality sleep.
We spend a third of our lives in bed, after all. "
"Some more than others, apparently," I mutter before I can stop myself.
His smile widens, revealing perfect white teeth. "Indeed. And speaking of which, I've cleared my schedule for the next week to focus on your... acclimation."
I nearly choke on a piece of strawberry. "My what?"
"Your acclimation to your new life. Your training." His eyes darken slightly. "After last night, I've realized you require more attention than I initially anticipated."
I set down my fork, suddenly less hungry. "I thought you had a company to run."
"I do. Wolfe Enterprises employs over fifteen thousand people across three continents." He says this not as a boast but as a simple statement of fact. "I have capable executives who can handle day-to-day operations for a short period. You, however, are a more... personal investment."
The clinical term makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. "For twenty-nine more days," I remind him, needing to establish that boundary.
Roman's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes hardens. "Yes, that's what the contract stipulates."
"You say that like you're already planning to extend it," I observe, trying to keep my tone light despite the flutter of unease in my stomach.
He takes the coffee cup from my hand, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. "I believe in planning for contingencies."
"The contingency being... what? That I might want to stay?" I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "I signed up for a month, Roman. Not a lifetime."
"A month is a long time, Delilah," he says, my name a caress in his mouth. "People can develop significant attachments in far less time."
"People, maybe. Not you." I meet his gaze directly. "You don't strike me as a man who forms attachments easily."
Something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "You'd be surprised what I'm capable of when I find something worth possessing permanently."
A shiver runs down my spine. "I'm not a possession."
"For the next twenty-nine days, you are." His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing across my lower lip. "And you responded beautifully to being possessed last night."
Heat floods my face at the reminder. "That was... physical. It doesn't mean—"
"It means exactly what I said it means," he interrupts, voice soft but unyielding. "We fit together perfectly. Your body recognizes what your mind is still fighting."
Before I can formulate a response, he leans forward and captures my lips in a kiss that steals my breath and my arguments simultaneously. Unlike last night's hungry claiming, this is slow, deliberate—a methodical seduction that has my toes curling against the silk sheets.
When he pulls away, his eyes are dark with desire, but his control is firmly back in place. "Finish your breakfast," he murmurs. "Then shower and dress. You'll find suitable clothing in the closet. Nothing from your previous life, remember?"
The reminder of my agreement to leave everything behind stings more than it should. "What exactly is on the agenda for today's... training?" I ask, trying to reclaim some semblance of control.
Roman stands, straightening cuffs that don't need straightening. "First, we establish routines. Your diet, exercise, sleep schedule. Then we discuss expectations regarding your appearance and behavior both in private and, eventually, in public."
"I sound like a prize pet being groomed for a show," I mutter.
His smile is cold but genuine. "Not inaccurate, though I prefer to think of it as refinement rather than training. You have natural quality, Delilah. I'm simply polishing what's already there."
"And what if I don't want to be polished?" I challenge, finding a spark of my old defiance.
Roman's expression doesn't change, but the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. "The contract you signed gives me complete authority over your appearance and activities for the next month. You agreed to obey without question. Are you already attempting to renegotiate our terms?"
Put that way, my objection sounds petulant and futile. "No," I concede.
"Good." His approval shouldn't warm me, but it does. "Because I've invested considerable resources in you, Delilah. Far more than the financial compensation outlined in our agreement."
"What do you mean?"
He gestures vaguely around the room. "The clothes. The preparations. The time I've allocated personally. My interest in you extends beyond a simple transaction." His eyes lock with mine, intense and unyielding. "I don't do anything halfway. When I commit, I commit fully."
"You make it sound like we're in a relationship," I say, uncomfortable with the implication.
"We are in a relationship," he corrects. "A clearly defined one with mutually understood terms. The fact that money changes hands doesn't make it less real than the sentimental arrangements most people stumble into."
There's a cold logic to his words that I find hard to argue with, despite the objections clamoring in my mind. "For a month," I repeat, as much to remind myself as him.
Roman tilts his head slightly, studying me with those penetrating eyes. "You know, in my experience, the people who most insist on reminding me of contractual end dates are those who already fear they might not want to leave when the time comes."
His insight hits uncomfortably close to the anxiety churning beneath my surface. What if I do get used to this? What if the luxury, the security, the intensity of his attention becomes addictive? What if the physical connection between us continues to deepen?
"You're overthinking," Roman observes, reading my expression with unsettling accuracy. "Finish your breakfast, shower, and join me in the living room in thirty minutes. We have a schedule to maintain."
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "Oh, and Delilah?" His eyes run over me in a deliberate assessment that makes my skin tingle. "Don't bother getting too dressed. Your clothing won't stay on long."
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with cooling coffee and a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. I glance around at the opulent bedroom, the silk sheets tangled around my naked body, the breakfast tray with its perfectly arranged food.
I've traded my freedom for luxury and security, telling myself it's just for a month.
But Roman is already planning beyond that horizon, already weaving a web around me so seductive and comfortable I might never want to leave.
The most terrifying part isn't his presumption—it's the small voice inside me wondering if he might be right.