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We stay like that for a long moment. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. The only sound is our breathing, harsh and uneven, filling the quiet room.

Then I pull back and look at her.

She’s sprawled on my desk, naked and flushed and thoroughly fucked. Her hair is a mess, her lips are swollen, and there are red marks on her hips where my hands held her. She looks wrecked and beautiful and completely mine.

I can’t stay here.

I step back, pulling out of her, and reach for my clothes. She sits up slowly, wincing a little, and watches me dress with an expression I can’t read.

“Get some sleep,” I say.

“Maxim?”

“Good night, Davina.”

I walk out of the study before I can look at her again.

Chapter Thirteen - Davina

I wake up sore.

Not just the physical kind—though there’s that too, a tenderness between my legs that makes me wince when I shift—but the kind that comes from sleeping wrong too. It took me a long time to get to sleep last night.

All I can think about is his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, his body pressing into mine until I forgot every reason why this was wrong.

I sit up and press my palms against my eyes.

I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to replay the way he touched me, the way he looked at me, the way he said my name when he came inside me. I don’t want to remember how it felt to be pinned against that wall, helpless and wanting, surrendering to something I never should have wanted in the first place.

Except I can’t stop.

Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Every time my mind drifts, I feel his hands. The worst part is that some traitorous part of me doesn’t regret it at all.

I force myself off the couch and into the small bathroom. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it and scrub myself until my skin is pink, trying to wash away the memory of his touch. It doesn’t work. Nothing works.

When I’m dressed again, I stand in the middle of the room and try to think rationally.

It was tension. That’s all. Weeks of proximity and fear and adrenaline, all building up until it found an outlet. Maxim is attractive, and he’s powerful in a way that’s hard to ignore. It was manipulation, whether he intended it or not. He’s my captor. I’m his hostage. There’s no version of this where what happened between us means anything real.

I repeat this to myself until the words start to feel true.

I spend the morning avoiding the guards. Not literally—they’re still posted outside my door, still watching my every move—but I don’t make eye contact, don’t engage in conversation, don’t do anything that might lead to another encounter with Maxim.

I can’t face him. Not yet. Not until I’ve figured out how to pretend last night didn’t happen.

Around midday, I venture out of my room. I tell myself I’m looking for food, but really I’m just restless, unable to stay in that small space with nothing but my thoughts for company.

The mansion is quiet. Most of the men are elsewhere, dealing with whatever business requires their attention. I walk through the halls without purpose, letting my feet carry me wherever they want to go.

That’s when I hear the voices.

I’m passing one of the offices—a room I’ve never been inside, tucked in a corner of the east wing—when I catch fragments of conversation. Two men speaking heavily accented English, their tones casual, like they’re discussing the weather rather than something that matters.

I should keep walking. I should mind my own business. Something makes me stop.

“…keeping her around this long,” one of them says. “The agency hasn’t responded to any of our demands. She’s not useful as leverage anymore.”

“Maxim has other plans for her,” the other replies. “You saw what she did with the system. The girl has skills.”