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A man I had never met had died protecting me, and this was all I had of him. It was all I had of either of my parents. I closed my hand around the claw.

I wanted that. Not the dying for love bit — I was not romantic about sacrifice in the abstract. I wanted to be someone's first, their most important, their non-negotiable thing. I wanted to be chosen not because I was useful or competent or the best person available for the job, but because someone had looked at me and decided that the world without me in it was not a world they were willing to live in.

How I would get that devotion from someone when I wouldn't even make them breakfast the morning after? That I was a problem my CEO brain had no idea how to solve. This was the first time I realized I might want this kind of promotion. And I had not one reference for it on my resume of one-night stands, fuck buddies, and boy toys.

I had the company. I had the nameplate and the business cards, and the corner office with the view. I had built everything I had set out to build. And I didn't feel in the least bit satisfied by it.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't giving any of it up. I just wanted more. I inhaled deep, letting myself feel the want. The scent coming from the door filled my lungs and sent a tingle to my core.

There was something on the other side of the door. A scent. Cedar and heat and smoke.

I was already off the couch when the lock turned and the door opened.

Magnus filled the frame. His eyes went over me in the rapid, systematic way of someone conducting a damage assessment; face, arms, the ankle I was standing on. His expression shifted when he found nothing obviously wrong.

"How did you get past the lock?"

He didn't answer. He came in, which I had not technically invited him to do. I stepped back because the alternative was standing my ground in a bathrobe, and I was choosing my battles.

He looked me over again, closer now. Then he crossed to the couch, sat down, and looked at me with an expression that said, come here without using any words.

"I'm fine," I said.

He reached out. Took my hand. Pulled me toward him with a calm expression, and sat me on the table in front of him. His hands went to my ankle. He pressed along the joint with a careful attention. Not seductive. Clinical, focused.

"They said you twisted it."

I shrugged. "It's fine now."

He looked up at me. His hands were on my ankle. I had a horrible thought: what if he believed me and left.

I did not want him to stand up, nod, and leave me in my beautiful, empty residence. I wanted — just tonight, just this once, in this room where nobody was watching and nothing was being evaluated by a board — to be the thing I had been pretending all my life not to be.

I wanted to be needy. I wanted someone else to be in charge. I wanted someone else to make all the decisions. I wanted — for just a little while — for someone else to be the boss of me.

I knew with Magnus, I'd have to take the initiative to hand over the reins.

Before he could get up and leave because he believed I was fine. Or I was capable, I climbed into his lap.

I straddled him. I put my hands on his face. And I kissed him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

MAGNUS

Ihad driven here expecting damage. There were no bruises on that perfect mocha skin of hers. No cuts or scrapes on her elbows or knees. Her ankle looked a little red. That was the only sign of injury. But I couldn't look away from it.

The line of her Achilles was clean and taut. The ball of her ankle, smooth and round under my thumb. The curve where her heel met the sole of her foot was soft.

My canines ached. I wanted to put my mouth on the back of that ankle and work my way down to her painted toenails. Fuck me, when did I get a foot fetish? Likely the moment I scooped Petronella Odhiambo into my arms instead of letting her best friend handle the situation. She may have gotten injured tonight, but I was royally fucked.

She was fine.

She was always fine. She did not bring me problems. She brought me solutions. She didn't want to fuck me to get anything other than pleasure. She wanted me for the pleasure of having me. And now, instead of handling pack business, I was letting this defiant human crawl into my lap and claim my mouth. She straddled my lap and set that hot cunt of hers right over my erection because she knew I wanted her. Just for the pleasure of having her.

I had spent a lifetime in rooms full of people who wanted things from me: my judgment, my protection, my name, my political capital. I knew what it felt like to be wanted for what I represented. It felt like being a very valuable piece of furniture with the plastic still on.

This was not that.