Page 52

The kitchen draws my attention first, impossible to ignore even from the entrance, the illuminated violet quartz island glowing softly beneath a sculptural chandelier dripping with crystals like frozen rain, the entire space looking as though it’s been carved from light and stone. It’s luxurious, undeniably masculine, but there’s something darker woven into it, something that feels unmistakably like him.

The countertops gleam, set with just a few glasses and plates, like he’s always prepared for company without ever actually inviting anyone in, while the rest of the kitchen follows the same precise aesthetic—dark matte cabinets, hidden appliances, everything aligned with sharp, intentional lines that speak of control.

To the right the space opens into the living area, where a massive U-shaped couch dominates the room, upholstered in soft grey leather that mirrors the clean minimalism of the kitchen, anchored by a low black marble table and surrounded by armchairs placed just right, creating a space that seems equally suited for conversation or silence.

The lighting is low and warm, reflecting off subtle metallic accents, adding depth without overwhelming the room. The television stretches across the far wall, blending seamlessly into the design, more like a window than a screen.

And directly ahead, a wide staircase rises toward the upper floor, the steps appearing to float, outlined by hidden lights that guide the way upward, both inviting and dangerous.

It’s elegant, but not cold. Every detail unmistakably him.

Standing here, I can’t decide what affects me more—the house, or the man behind me.

Because even without turning around, I can feel his gaze on me, intense and patient, waiting.

Waiting for me to speak. To explain. To prove that I didn’t come all this way just to hesitate now.

Every time Ethan teases me, it seems like a challenge, like he’s daring me to reach for what I want instead of settling for whatever I’m given, and I never do. I’ve spent my entire life with so little that it never even crossed my mind that I could ask for what I actually want.

But now, the need sits heavy in my chest, impossible to ignore, and the only way to have it is to say it out loud.

I draw in a slow breath, steadying myself before turning to face him, the mask already slipping into place, cool, calm, because I need to look like a woman who knows exactly what she wants.

Anything less, and he won’t even consider it.

“I have lost something,” I say, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “And I think you’re the one who can give it back to me.”

His expression changes almost imperceptibly, the amusement still there but now edged with something sharper, more attentive. He leans back against the glowing island, bracing his palms against it, then crossing his ankles in a relaxed stance that somehow makes him look even more handsome.

His gaze drags over me from head to toe, and it feels like a touch all on its own.

“What are you looking for, Thalia?” he asks, his voice rough, sliding over my skin like heat.

“You.”

I answer before I can second-guess it, simple and direct. There’s no point pretending otherwise because I came here for him, and judging by the look in his eyes, he knew it the second he opened the door.

Still, I need to make sure he understands exactly what this is, and what it isn’t.

“I lost control of my thoughts after that night with you,” I admit, my voice quieter now, even as his smirk deepens, spreading across that infuriatingly perfect face.

“I need to get that control back, and that’s why I need one more night with you.”

This time, he laughs, the sound deep and rich, and my heart stumbles in my chest despite myself.

“You sure?” he asks, his gaze locking onto mine again. “Sure you can handle it?” His voice becomes rougher, the words carrying a fire that burns deep in my body. “Because I don’t do gentle, Thalia. I like to fuck. To fuck hard.”

He says it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send a sharp wave of need through me that I have to fight to contain.

“Last time, I held back,” he continues, his tone darkly amused. “You tricked me, gave me half the truth, made me think you were joking.” His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “I don’t make love.”

“I don’t need love,” I shoot back immediately, lifting my chin, refusing to let him see even a hint of hesitation, because I know what I’m asking for, and I know this might be the only time I’ll ever get to ask for it.

“Then what do you need?”

“Sex.” This time, my voice is steady.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, and then slowly he pushes off the island and starts walking toward me, unhurried, controlled, like he already knows how this ends.