Page 93 of High Reward

I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with something that must be Victor’s cologne. “I have everything I need with you and Victor.”

For this moment, in this suite with Grace beside me, I almost believe it. Almost feel safe again.

But Grace’s happiness is real and present, and infectious. I hold onto it like a flashlight in the dark. Tonight, at least, one of us is whole.

“He seemed as though he wanted to tell me something.” Grace’s voice shifts, becoming uncertain. “Right at the end when we were getting dressed. Like there was something important he needed to say, but he changed his mind.” She traces the pattern on the couch with her fingertip, a small furrow appearing between her brows. “When I asked what it was, he said it could wait.”

Something sharp curls in my stomach. Cold realization. Victor promised he would tell her everything, about her stalker, about his suspicions. He gave me his word less than twelve hours ago. And then he took her on a romantic date, had the perfect opportunity, and said nothing.

“Did he seem worried?” I keep my voice neutral, fighting to keep my expression relaxed while anger simmers beneath.

“Not worried exactly. More like conflicted.” Grace leans back, her head resting against the couch. “Like he was weighing whether to ruin the moment.”

I swallow my irritation. This isn’t about me. And Grace doesn’t need to know I’m angry with Victor. She’s finally relaxed after days of tension, finally found a moment of peace. I won’t be the one to shatter it.

“Maybe he wanted to save serious talk for another time,” I suggest. “Let you enjoy the night.” Bitterness sits on my tongue. It’s not a lie, but it sure feels like one.

Grace nods, seemingly satisfied with this explanation. “Probably. There’s been so much happening. Phineas, the shooting, his father showing up.”

Victor’s overprotective streak runs far deeper than I realized. On the surface, it’s sweet. The way he hovers and changes my bandages, or how he positions himself between me or Grace and the door whenever we’re in the same room. But this paternalistic decision-making, determining what Grace deserves to know about her own life? It’s too familiar. Too much like the way Phineas would filter information, presenting only what he deemed appropriate for my delicate sensibilities. The comparison makes my skin crawl.

Grace touches my arm, startling me from my thoughts.

“Lili? Are you OK? You went somewhere else for a minute.”

I blink, forcing a smile. “Just tired. It’s been a long few days.”

Her eyes search mine, concern replacing the dreamy happiness from moments before. I can’t have that. Can’t be the reason her perfect evening ends with worry.

“Actually,” I say, sliding closer to her on the couch, “I was thinking we could play a little.” I let my voice drop, fingers tracing a path up her arm. “If you’re not too worn out from your bookstore adventures.”

Grace’s pupils dilate slightly, her breathing changing in that subtle way that tells me she’s interested. “What did you have in mind?”

“Something simple.” I stand, needing to move, to be in control of something. “I want to see you on your knees.”

Her expression shifts, excitement mingling with that beautiful surrender she wears so well. This is familiar ground for both ofus. Safe territory. A place where the rules are clear and consent is explicit.

“Just us?” she asks, already sliding to the edge of the couch. “Or should we wait for Victor?”

The mention of his name sparks fresh irritation. “Just us,” I say, a little too quickly. “Unless you’d rather wait.”

“No,” Grace says immediately. “I’d love that. Just us.”

The simple affirmation soothes something in me. At least here, in this, there’s honesty. Grace wants this, wants me.

I move to the center of the room creating space. “Stand here,” I direct, pointing to a spot in front of me.

She complies immediately, her body already shifting into a more composed posture. The transformation is subtle but profound, the way her chin lifts, shoulders relax, and her hands clasp loosely at her waist. She’s confident in her role as a submissive, and it’s sexy as hell.

“Strip,” I tell her, the word coming out harsher than I intended.

If she notices the edge in my voice, she doesn’t show it. Her hands reach behind her, and she unzips her dress. No rush, no fumbling. Just the quiet confidence of a submissive who knows her value.

The fabric falls down her shoulders, revealing skin I’ve now kissed a hundred times. The familiar surge of desire I’m expecting isn’t there. The sweet anticipation of bending her to my will is just out of reach. Instead, I’m disconnected, like I’m watching the scene from outside my body.

The dress pools at her feet. She steps out of it and folds it neatly, setting it on the coffee table. Her undergarments come next, and then she stands naked before me, perfect in her vulnerability.

“Kneel,” I say, my voice steadier now.