CHAPTER 12
MALCOLM
The cold machinery of my brain shuts down the moment her fingers twist into my hair.
I have spent my entire adult life operating in environments where a single miscalculation results in catastrophic failure. I am conditioned to observe, to anticipate, to remain entirely detached from the variables in the room.
Audrey is not a variable anymore. She is the only thing in the room.
I slide my hands under the thick wool of her sweater.
Her bare skin is warm, the muscles of her back shifting under my palms as she arches into me.
The physical contact sends a violent, grounding shock through my nervous system.
I press her backward, my chest flush against hers, trapping her completely between my body and the cold edge of the marble island.
She makes a soft, broken sound in the back of her throat, her mouth opening wider beneath mine.
I taste the salt from the food we just ate, the sharp bite of coffee, and the frantic, chaotic energy that has been vibrating between us since the moment she walked into that hotel bar. I angle her head, deepening the kiss, taking exactly what she is offering.
She doesn't pull away. She wraps her legs tighter around my waist, the denim of her jeans sliding against my sweatpants. Her hands drop from my hair to my shoulders, her nails digging into the cotton of my shirt as if she needs the leverage just to stay upright.
I tear my mouth away from hers, dragging my lips down the line of her jaw.
She gasps, her head falling back. The pale skin of her neck is completely exposed in the dim light of the kitchen pendants. I press my mouth to the erratic pulse beating just below her ear.
"Malcolm," she whispers. It isn't a protest. It’s a demand.
I slide one arm under her thighs, adjusting my grip, and lift her completely off the marble counter.
She lets out a sharp breath, instinctively tightening her hold on my shoulders as I carry her away from the kitchen. The penthouse is dead silent around us, the only sound the heavy, uneven rhythm of our breathing.
I walk down the hallway. I pass the closed door of the guest suite without a second glance.
I carry her straight into the master bedroom.
The room is dark, illuminated only by the ambient city light bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I don't bother reaching for the light switch. I walk to the edge of the king-sized bed and let her slide slowly down my chest until her feet touch the hardwood floor.
She doesn't let go of me. Her hands slide up to frame my face, her thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. Her eyes are dilated, the golden flecks swallowed entirely by the dark.
"You passed my room," she murmurs, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"You don't sleep in that room anymore," I reply.
I catch her wrists, pulling her hands away from my face, and press her gently backward until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress.
"Is that a rule?" she asks, the corner of her mouth curving up in a breathless, unsteady smile.
"It is a logistical necessity." I step into her space, crowding her until she has no choice but to sit down on the edge of the bed.
I remain standing, looking down at her. "If you sleep in the guest room, I will spend the entire night staring at the ceiling, calculating how many seconds it would take me to break the lock. "
Audrey looks up at me. The humor fades from her expression, replaced by the heavy, undeniable weight of what is happening between us.
She is sitting on my bed. She is wearing my grandmother’s ring. And she just spent the last six hours running across the city to protect me from a mistake I didn't even make.
I reach out, tracing the collar of her oversized sweater with my index finger.
"You are exhausted," I say quietly.
"I'm fine." She reaches for the hem of her sweater, her fingers gripping the wool. "I'm not tired."
I catch her hands before she can pull the fabric over her head.
"Audrey." I apply just enough pressure to stop her movement. "Look at me."
She drops the hem of the sweater, her eyes meeting mine. The defensive edge is creeping back into her posture, a reflex she relies on whenever she feels exposed.
"I am not going to sleep with you tonight," I tell her, my voice dropping to a low, absolute register.
She blinks, a flash of confusion crossing her face. "You just carried me into your bedroom."
"I carried you into my bedroom because I want you in my bed.
" I release her hands and step back, putting a crucial six inches of space between us.
If I stay any closer, my self-control will fracture completely.
"But you have survived on two hours of sleep, cheap gin, and adrenaline for the last forty-eight hours.
Your nervous system is redlining. If I take this any further right now, you will wake up tomorrow morning and wonder if you made a mistake. "
Her jaw tightens. "I don't make mistakes."
"I know." I look at the dark circles under her eyes, the pale exhaustion she is trying so hard to mask. "And I refuse to be the first one."
I walk around the edge of the bed, pulling the heavy duvet back. I don't look at her, giving her the physical space to process the boundary I just set.
It takes an immense amount of discipline. The violent, territorial instinct inside me wants to strip the sweater off her, pin her to the mattress, and ensure she never thinks about Simon Vance or the rest of the world ever again.
But I want her deliberate surrender. Not a frantic reaction to the chaos of the day.
"Get in the bed, Audrey," I say, my tone leaving no room for negotiation.
I hear the soft rustle of denim. She kicks her boots off, leaving them on the rug, and climbs into the center of the massive mattress. She pulls the duvet up to her chest, watching me as I walk to the opposite side.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, turning off the small lamp on the nightstand. The room plunges into near-total darkness.
I lie down next to her. I don't pull her into my chest immediately. I wait.
For a long minute, the only sound is the quiet hum of the climate control system. Then, the mattress shifts.
Audrey closes the distance between us. She slides across the high-thread-count sheets, pressing her back against my chest. I exhale a slow, controlled breath, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her flush against me.
She tucks her cold feet against my calves, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as the tension finally bleeds out of her muscles.
My hand rests flat against her stomach, directly over the thick wool of her sweater. I can feel the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart slowing down.
"Malcolm?" she whispers into the dark.
"I'm here."
"I don't think you're a mistake," she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep.
My throat tightens. The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. I press my face into the messy knot of her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.
"Go to sleep, Audrey," I tell her.
She doesn't argue. Less than five minutes later, her breathing evens out, the exhaustion finally dragging her under.
I stay awake for another two hours, staring at the dark shadows on the ceiling, my arm locked securely around the woman who just dismantled my entire existence.
**
The light in the bedroom is gray and muted when I wake up.
I don't open my eyes immediately. I register the unfamiliar weight pressing against my side.
Audrey is still asleep. Sometime during the night, she turned around.
Her face is buried in the crook of my neck, her arm thrown carelessly across my chest. Her left hand rests right over my heart, the vintage diamond cold against my skin.
I lie perfectly still, cataloging the sensation.
I have never shared a bed with a woman for an entire night. I have always found the proximity suffocating. But waking up with Audrey anchored to my chest feels entirely correct. It feels like the room was built for this exact purpose.
I carefully slide my arm out from under her. She makes a quiet sound of protest, her brow furrowing, but she doesn't wake up. I pull the duvet over her bare shoulder and step out of bed.
I walk to the master bathroom, turn on the shower, and let the cold water shock the lingering fatigue out of my system.
When I walk back into the bedroom fifteen minutes later, wearing clean sweatpants and a dark t-shirt, Audrey is sitting up.
She is pushing the tangled hair out of her eyes, looking around the minimalist room with a slightly disoriented expression. Her gaze finds me standing near the doorway.
"Morning," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
She drops her hands to her lap. The memory of last night clearly hits her all at once. I watch the rapid progression of emotions cross her face—confusion, realization, and finally, a cautious, guarded acceptance.
"Morning," she replies, her voice raspy. She looks down at the massive expanse of the bed. "I slept for nine hours."
"You needed it."
"I drooled on your pillow."
"I have others." I cross the room, stopping at the edge of the mattress. "How do you take your coffee?"
"Black. With an embarrassing amount of sugar.
" She pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
She looks up at me, the sarcasm completely absent from her tone.
"Are we going to talk about the fact that I am currently sitting in your bed, or are we going to pretend we are still just executing a corporate contract? "
"I don't pretend, Audrey." I hold her gaze, refusing to let her hide behind the question. "The contract is a mechanism to keep you in this apartment. What happened in the kitchen last night has nothing to do with Simon."
She bites the inside of her cheek. The honesty disarms her.
"Okay," she says softly. "Just... checking the parameters."
"The parameters are simple." I reach out, my knuckles brushing against the side of her knee through the duvet. "You are mine. I am yours. And anyone who attempts to interfere with that arrangement will be removed from the equation."
Her breath hitches, but she doesn't look away. The fear I expected to see in her eyes isn't there. Instead, there is a dark, mirroring intensity that tells me she understands exactly what I am offering her.
Before she can respond, a sharp, electronic buzz sounds from the intercom panel mounted on the wall near the door.
The sound shatters the quiet intimacy of the room.
I drop my hand, the muscles in my back instantly locking into tension. I walk over to the panel and press the comm button.
"Report," I say flatly.
Grant’s voice comes through the speaker, crisp and entirely devoid of inflection. "Sir. I apologize for the interruption. A courier just arrived at the lobby desk. He delivered a physical document addressed to you and Miss Jennings."
I narrow my eyes. "A courier?"
"Yes, sir. It bypassed the standard mail screening because it was delivered by a bonded legal representative from the Vance holding company." Grant pauses, a rare hesitation. "It is a formal summons from your father."
Audrey shifts on the bed, the rustle of the sheets loud in the quiet room. She is listening.
"Read it," I order.
I hear the sound of heavy paper tearing over the intercom.
"It is an invitation," Grant reads, his tone carefully neutral. "Preston Vance requests the presence of Malcolm Vance and Audrey Jennings at the family estate in Lake Forest. Tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock. For a celebratory family dinner regarding your recent engagement."
A cold, absolute silence settles over the bedroom.
I look at Audrey. She is staring at the intercom panel, her face pale.
"Is Simon going to be there?" I ask Grant, though I already know the answer.
"The invitation specifies that the entire immediate family will be in attendance, sir. Including Simon."
I release the comm button, cutting the connection.
Preston is not a man who throws celebratory dinners.
He is a man who orchestrates public executions.
The gala was a skirmish. This invitation is a declaration of war.
He wants to drag Audrey into his territory, surround her with the family that destroyed her, and remind her exactly how insignificant she is.
"He wants to see if we break," Audrey says, her voice breaking the silence.
I turn around. She is out of the bed, standing on the hardwood floor. The oversized sweater swallows her frame, but her posture is rigid. The vulnerability from five minutes ago is gone, replaced by the sharp, defensive architect who walked into the hotel bar three days ago.
"He wants to intimidate you," I correct her. "He expects you to refuse the invitation. When you refuse, he will tell the board of directors that my fiancée is unstable and unfit for the Vance family circle. He will use it to challenge my position as CEO."
"So, it’s a trap."
"It is a highly coordinated ambush." I walk toward her, stopping a few feet away. "You do not have to go, Audrey. I can handle Preston."
"If you go alone, he wins the narrative," she says, her mind already working through the logistics. She presses her thumb against the side of her index finger, calculating the risks. "He’ll tell everyone I was too cowardly to face them. He’ll make Simon look like the victim."
"I don't care what Simon looks like. I care about your safety."
"I am safe," she says, looking up at me. The golden flecks in her eyes are burning with a sudden, fierce determination. "I am standing in your bedroom. I am wearing your ring. You told me last night that I am not a liability."
"You aren't."
"Then let me prove it." She takes a step forward, closing the distance between us.
She doesn't reach for me, but her presence demands my full attention. "Preston wants to see if I’ll break. Let’s go to his house and show him exactly what happens when you corner a woman who has nothing left to lose. "
I stare at her.
I expected panic. I expected her to ask me to fix it.
Instead, she is standing in my bedroom, looking at me like a soldier asking for a weapon.
The cold, violent possessiveness I felt in the parking lot yesterday returns, but this time, it is mixed with a profound, terrifying surge of pride. She isn't just surviving my world. She is adapting to it.
"Tomorrow night," I say, my voice dropping to a rough murmur. "Seven o'clock."
"Seven o'clock," she confirms.
I reach out, my hand wrapping around the back of her neck. I pull her forward and press my mouth hard against hers. It is a fast, bruising kiss, a seal on the promise we just made.
When I pull back, her breathing is uneven, her eyes dark.
"I'll get your coffee," I tell her, turning toward the door. "We have a dinner to prepare for."