Page 59 of Cruel Demands

“You should at least have reminded me that you could.” She stares at me as if I have begun speaking another language. Perhaps I have. The language of rooms she has never been invited into. The language of leverage, debt, favor, danger. The language of men who smile while deciding what a person is worth. “Earlier, I humiliated you about being late.”

I lean close enough that only she can hear me. “We both know why you were late. Whose bed you were in.” It is a cruel thing to say. It should make her angry. It should make her stand up for herself. Instead, a deep blush crawls across her chest.

“You should have made me answer for that,” I say. “You should have come in here angry. You should have asked what I intended to do about the situation. You should have made it clear you have witnesses. People behind you. A university that would have to explain why its student was removed after spending the night with the governor.”

Her throat moves. “You think they would choose me over you?” Too honest. My cruelty doesn’t anger her. It breaks something. “I don’t want trouble,” she says. “That’s all. Please. All I’m asking is that you keep what happened between us quiet.”

Irritation moves through me again. Unreasonable. Sharp.

I should be pleased. This is exactly what I told myself I wanted this morning. A clean boundary. A practical girl making a practical choice. She will work, study, go home, and one day remember me only when a certain kind of cold strikes the window.

Instead, I dislike the neat, temporary shape she’s trying to give herself in my office. “You want me not to tell anyone here that you spent the night with me,” I murmur, my eyes moving toward the darkened glass. “You want me to keep it quiet.”

“Yes.”

“Do you realize who I am?”

Her brows draw together. “You’re Mikhail Korolev.”

“No. My question is whether you understand what that name means here.”

Her grip shifts on the folder. I take it from her and place it on the desk. She tugs her skirt lower. She knows more now than she did last night. Enough to be careful. Not enough to understand the problem. “You’re rich. Is that your point? I knew that when I saw your house.”

“No, Taylor. Many men are rich.”

“So you’re powerful?”

“Warmer.”

“Important,” she guesses.

I say nothing. Our eyes remain locked in a contest. Her jaw tightens, and I lose when I look away from her eyes and glance at the curve of her throat.

“Dangerous,” she says.

Understanding enters her expression. My eyes travel down her body. Her breath changes. Her breasts lift beneath the pale blouse in a way I remember from last night. Her body doesn’t sort danger cleanly from desire. Neither does mine.

I glance toward the closed door, then back at her. “Are you certain you want to keep what happened secret?”

I adjust my cuff link, though it does not need adjustment. I’m not entirely sure why I am pushing her except that I want her to understand exactly what she has surrendered. If she is going to survive this world, she must be willing to bite. So far, she’s unwilling even to bare her teeth.

Or perhaps it’s the way her thighs appear beneath the hem of the skirt, her fingers still trying to tug it lower.

“I can make things easier for you,” I say.

Her expression goes flat. “Can you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure.”

“You dislike the offer.”

“I know what it costs.”

“There would be no cost.”

“A priceless offer, then,” she says sarcastically, reclaiming her folder from the desk. Her voice is steadier now. Too steady for someone twenty years old and less than an hour into her first day.