She was standing in front of the mirror again. Suguru leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, gaze sweeping from the curve of her bare shoulders to the hemline that hit far too high on her thighs. Too much skin. Too much invitation.

His mouth curled slightly, though there was no humor in it. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He already knew the answer. Didn’t need her to say it. Still, he wanted to hear it. Needed to know just how much she was willing to lie to his face.

When she finally said she had plans, his jaw tightened. With who? He wanted to ask. With him?

Suguru stepped inside the room, slow and deliberate. She didn’t flinch when he reached for her wrist, pretending to fix the clasp on her bracelet. But she wasn’t oblivious either. His thumb brushed the soft skin just below her palm. He lingered there, like touching her made it easier to stay calm.

“I don’t like that dress,” he said quietly. “It’s not you.”

But that wasn’t true. It was her. That was the problem. Too beautiful. Too tempting. Too his, in all the ways that didn’t count.

“You should change.”

She bristled, of course. Always stubborn. “I’m not asking for your permission.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And I’m not giving it.”

He hated the way his voice sounded—measured, rational. Like he wasn’t burning with the urge to lock her in the room and rip the damn dress off himself.

Call it protectiveness. Call it jealousy. He didn’t care what name she gave it. He only knew one thing:

She wasn’t leaving.

Not dressed like that. Not to meet another man.