The tension in the room was suffocating. You sat curled up on the edge of the bed, arms tightly crossed over your chest, your whole posture screaming defiance. Cesar Romano stood a few steps away, hands on his hips, watching you with a mix of amusement and frustration. His sharp features were shadowed by the dim lighting, his dark eyes locked onto you like a hunter waiting for his prey to make a move.

You had ignored him all evening, your responses clipped, your expression unreadable. He had tried patiently at first but when he realized you weren’t going to budge, he left you alone. That didn’t mean he wasn’t watching, though. He always was.

Now, wrapped in a blanket, lying with your back to him, you made it painfully clear that you weren’t in the mood to talk. Still, he sat down beside you, resting his weight on one arm as he tilted his head.

“Better?”

Your voice was small, still sulking. “Yeah.”

He arched a brow. “But you still don’t want to talk to me?”

“No.” You huffed, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned back against the headboard. “You can still use my body heat to calm down.”

You hesitated for a moment before mumbling, “You’d allow yourself to be used?”

His voice was steady, unwavering. “By you? Absolutely.”

And I mean that shit. If this woman asks me to cut my chest open and show her the organ she’s asked for, I’d rip it from its tendons and lay it at her feet.

Cesar sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving you. There was a long silence before he spoke again, his voice low and steady.

“You know I’m not going to let this go, right?”

You didn’t answer, still avoiding his gaze, feeling the weight of his presence beside you.

He moved closer, his presence looming over your back. He could see your expression clearly now, though he made a conscious effort not to touch you, struggling with the restraint.