It was almost midnight when Lila padded out of her room.

She couldn’t sleep.

Not with the weight of the contract in her chest and his voice echoing in her head.

“I bought your time. Not your body.”

She hated how her skin had responded to that voice. Hated even more that the coldest man she’d ever met had managed to get under her skin in less than a day.

The house was quiet now — a cathedral of shadows and expensive silence. Her feet barely made a sound on the marble.

She turned the corner into the kitchen—and stopped dead.

He was there.

Shirt undone, sleeves rolled, hair slightly messy like he’d run a hand through it too many times. A glass of whiskey in one hand, a storm in his eyes.

Dante Wolfe didn’t look at her at first. He took a slow sip, then finally said, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” she answered, voice dry. “Wasn’t aware insomnia was against the contract.”

He turned to her fully, leaning against the counter like temptation wrapped in money. “It’s not. But walking around at night in... that”—his eyes dragged down her legs, slow, deliberate—“might be.”

Lila looked down.

She was barefoot, in a thin tank top and cotton sleep shorts — nothing revealing, but suddenly, painfully aware of how little stood between her and his gaze.

“Didn’t realize I needed body armor to get water,” she said coolly.

“You don’t,” he said. “But if you keep showing up looking like that, I might start charging you extra.”

Her heart thudded.

He was messing with her. Testing her. But something in his tone made her thighs clench involuntarily — like he was two seconds from closing the distance between them.

Lila stepped past him to grab a glass. Her shoulder brushed his arm — heat shot through her like a live wire. She felt it.

And so did he.

He didn’t move away.

“You’re used to women melting when you walk into a room, aren’t you?” she asked softly, pouring herself water with hands that she willed not to shake.

“I’m used to silence,” he said. “Not mouthy girls in sleepwear who keep breaking rules they pretend to understand.”

“I haven’t broken anything.”

“You just did,” he murmured, voice brushing her neck. “You got too close.”

Lila turned to him. She was close enough to smell the scotch on his breath — smoky, smooth, expensive.

“Then maybe rewrite your damn rules,” she said.

He stared at her. Cold. Hungry. Conflicted.

But when he spoke, his voice was all ice again.

“You should go back to bed.”

She didn’t move.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” she cut in. “You’re the one who can’t stop looking at me.”

Something shifted in his jaw.

He stepped closer — not enough to touch her, but enough to threaten it.

Then he leaned in and whispered near her ear:

“Don’t play with fire, Lila. I don’t do second warnings.”

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

Leaving her in the kitchen, breathless, heart pounding, glass sweating in her hand — and her entire body on edge.