It feels like a step toward intimacy, sharing space with him. Even in my state of exhaustion, I’m aware of the details, how his room is an extension of his personality—structured. Minimalist. Meticulously organized. Every element of the room is deliberate and precise, from the ebony wood to the steel and glass accents. Even the high-quality linens in understated neutral shades.
There isn’t a single personal touch in the entire vast expanse. The whole room is austere, just like him, but the recessed lighting filters in warmth.
"Did you move my things in here?" I ask curiously when I note the white toothbrush, pink bathrobe, and slippers in here that he had in my room. I give him a curious look. “You knew I was coming."
"I expected you would eventually," he says. "But no. Those aren't the same. I had duplicates bought and brought in here." He shrugs. “In case you wanted to go back and forth.”
I open my mouth to respond but forget what I'm going to say because he’s… undressing. My gaze lingers on his inked hands, captivated by the way they move—steady. Deliberate. There’s something about them that makes my heart turn in my chest. He didn’t have those tats when he was a boy. No, the tats and scars were the heralds of his moving into power, reminders of a journey he’s walked, shaped by pain and brutality. Those hands have lived a lifetime of battles, and he isn’t yet thirty.
“Get ready for bed, Anya. You need sleep. We've had a long day."
It feels like I've had a longmonth.
Year?
Lifetime?
But he's right. I do need to get some sleep.
He shrugs out of his shirt, then folds it before he places it in a hamper with dirty clothes. I've never seen anybody fold clothes before tossing them into a hamper, but it’s on point for him.
Alright. If he can get undressed in front of me, I can play that game.
When I shrug out of the dress top that was my mother's, it feels as if I'm shedding a part of who I am—my childhood, the memory of my mother. I chose a few of my favorite items from the clothing left in the closet before we left my former home. This top… I can still remember she wore it the day we opened the bakery. I pull it over my head, and just to appease him—and see if he notices—I fold it before I put it in the hamper.
His gaze grows molten.
“I’m keeping that.”
“Of course you are.”
I turn away, pretending I didn’t see the way his desire flares and his dick tents his pants.Ha.
Next, the zipper of my skirt. I drag it down, my back toward him. It's old-fashioned, I know, but it was also my mother's, so I love it.
I miss her. I miss her so damn much. I ball it up and toss it into the hamper.
He flinches.
Was it the sudden movement or the balled-up clothing? No wonder one of the first things he taught Stefan was to clean his room.
I stand in front of him, wearing my panties and a bra—pretty, well-fitted garments he’s obviously imagining taking off.
I swallow hard.
"We don't have time for this," he says in a low growl.
"Getting ready for bed?" I ask innocently. I am so tired. My eyes feel heavy, but adrenaline courses through me, reminding me of what happened earlier today. "Somewhere to go?"
He narrows his eyes on me and licks his lips.
"You know what I mean. I'm trying to be responsible, Anya, and not fuck you every minute of the day like I want to. But believe me when I tell you, I am far from having exorcised that demon."
A thrill courses through me. My nipples harden.
"I can help with that." My mouth waters when I look at the hard planes of muscle, the stunning ink. When I take a step closer, his Superman-like gaze pins me in place.
I shouldn't do this. But when I reach him, and he slides his hand to the small of my back before he cups my ass, I forget why.
