Page 31 of He Knows When You're Awake

“Trust,” he repeats, watching how the chains move with his touch. “Or submit.”

The word hangs between us, heavy with possibility. My mouth goes dry. “Is there a difference?”

His free hand settles on my waist, and I fight the urge to lean back against him. “Why don’t you tell me? This is your creation, after all. What made you design it this way?”

I should stick to technical specifications. Should discuss market trends or engineering challenges. Instead, I find myself telling the truth. “I was thinking about surrender,” I say softly. “How choosing to give up control is its own kind of power.”

His grip tightens fractionally. “Show me,” he murmurs, the necklace dangling from his fingers. “Put it on.”

I glance down at my worn T-shirt. Right. Because nothing says “professional jewelry demonstration” like the shirt I’ve been wearing since 8 a.m. This is where I should step back, maintain boundaries, remember he’s my investor. Focus on the collection, on proving myself as an artist. Instead, I’m noticing how his voice has gone all low and rough, and how his fingers on those chains are doing things to my blood pressure.

Every rational thought I’ve had since meeting Cole is evaporating. Watching him handle my creation like that... well. My professional judgment seems to have left the building.

“This T-shirt isn’t going to work.” I tug at the high neckline, aiming for practical and landing somewhere between breathless and bizarre. “Can’t see the chains properly.”

“No?” His thumb traces one of the chains. The studio suddenly feels about as spacious as a broom closet.

“I have something better. For the necklace.” Oh good, I’ve forgotten how sentences work. “Different neckline. To show it off.” Words. I used to be good at those.

His lips curve. “By all means. I’d hate to miss any of the... details.”

I’m a professional artist discussing my work. A professional artist who’s apparently developed a sudden coordination problem, given how I nearly take out my entire pencil collection standing up.

“I’ll just...” I wave vaguely toward my room. “Go. Change. For the necklace. The demonstration.”

My brain helpfully lists all the reasons this is a terrible idea. The deadline. The contract. The fact that my investor is looking at me like he wants to devour me. Yet here I am, already thinking about which piece in my closet would work best. For the necklace. Sure. Let’s go with that.

I don’t do this—don’t blur professional lines, don’t let attraction mess with business. But something about Cole makes all my careful rules feel like suggestions. Or maybe they were doomed the moment I signed that contract, agreeing to live in his tower like some kind of jewelry-making Rapunzel.

My room is my one camera-free zone, my single slice of privacy in this gilded fishbowl. I find what I’m looking for—a black silk dress I’d optimistically packed for Switzerland, thinking there might be fancy design guild events or dinners.

I’m still adjusting the straps, trying to convince myself this is all very professional and artistic, when movement catches my attention.

He’s at my doorway without warning, his large frame filling the space completely. His eyes, dark and hungry, lock onto mine. The necklace dangles from his fingers like a silent threat.

“Invite me in, Sloane,” he says, his voice low and commanding. It’s not a request. It’s a demand barely contained by the rules we’ve established. He doesn’t cross the threshold, but everything in his posture suggests he’s barely restraining himself.

I hesitate, remembering our agreement. My space is mine. I’msupposed to be in control here. But the way he’s looking at me, waiting at the door like some vampire who can’t enter without verbal permission... it makes my blood rush faster.

“Come in,” I say, the words coming out breathier than I intended. As soon as they leave my lips, I feel something shift between us... a power transferring from me to him.

He takes one step over the threshold. We both know what it means. No cameras here. No excuses. No going back.

“Turn around,” he says softly, but it’s not really a request.

I do. The metal feels cold against my throat, but his fingers are warm as they work the clasp. Each small adjustment of the chains sends a new sensation across my skin. When they finally settle into place, the weight is perfect—commanding but not confining. Not yet.

“Look,” he murmurs, turning me toward the mirror.

The necklace transforms the simple camisole into something dangerous. Something powerful. Cole’s fingers trail along the chains, testing the tension. “Beautiful,” he says, but he’s not looking at the jewelry anymore.

“The cameras—” I start.

“Can’t see us here.” His hands settle on my waist. “That was part of our deal, remember?”

His hand finds the chain at my throat, fingers sliding beneath the links. With the slightest pressure, he pulls me back against him. I watch in the mirror as his other hand grips my waist, holding me in place while he tests the tension of the necklace. The intensity of his gaze, the barely controlled power in his grip. My knees would buckle if he wasn’t holding me up.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against my ear.