His POV

She sits at the edge of my bed like she doesn’t belong here. Like the silk on her skin is too loud, too tight, too wrong. She keeps her legs close, arms crossed, like she’s trying to fold herself smaller, like maybe if she pretends hard enough, she’ll disappear.

But I see her.

Every trembling breath. Every twitch of her fingers as she fights the urge to cover herself.

I should look away. I don’t.

I just stand there—dripping from the shower, towel dropped, boxer clinging to skin that burns with restraint. My hands stay at my sides, but they ache. God, they ache.

I want to touch her.

Not out of lust. No. This isn’t lust anymore. This is hunger. Possession. A need carved out over months of watching, wanting, waiting.

She doesn’t know I’ve already taken her.

Not with hands. Not yet. But with eyes. With obsession. With every second she thought she was alone but wasn’t. She shivers. And I know it’s not just from the cold.

I walk forward—slow. Measured. The mattress dips as I sit beside her. Close enough to feel the heat between us. Close enough to ruin her.

“We’re not doing this,” I say. Voice flat. Empty. Lying. “You’re just a debt. And I don’t touch what’s already been sold.”

She flinches. I feel her breath hitch. I don’t look at her. If I do, I might forget the script.

I say it like I mean it. Like I don’t want her. Like I haven’t watched her through a screen at 2 a.m., curled up in bed, whispering in her sleep. Like I haven’t paid off her rent months in advance just to make sure she’d never leave that shitty apartment. The one I had cameras installed in under the guise of “safety.”

She thinks she’s here because of money.

She doesn’t understand. I bought her, yes. But not for this. Not for sex. Not for a night. I bought her so no one else could.

And now she’s here, wrapped in black lace that someone else chose, sitting on my bed, in my world, and I still won’t touch her.

Because if I do…

I won’t stop.

I’ll kiss the fear off her lips until she begs me to keep going. I’ll mark her skin until it remembers only me. I’ll bury myself in her until she forgets who she was before she belonged to me.

But not tonight.

Not yet.

She exhales. Quiet. Like maybe she’s safe now.

She isn’t.

I close my eyes. Try to breathe through the weight of her beside me. Her scent—too sweet, too soft. Her pulse—I can see it, fluttering at her neck like a warning. My jaw clenches. My fingers twitch.

I’ve broken men for less.

But her?

I’ll wait. Because when I finally take her… It’ll be when she begs me to. And she will.