Page 46 of Hallow’s Crown

I do.

He circles behind me, close enough that the heat of his body makes the sweat on my back go cold. I tense, but don’t react. He stops behind me, hands hovering just above my shoulders.

“Why tonight?” he asks.

I breathe in. “Because I need to know if this is real, or just a game.”

He laughs, low and sharp. “It’s always real.”

I turn my head, so the mask faces him. “Then prove it.”

His hands drop, one to the mask, the other to my shoulder. He slides his fingers under the edge, and I feel the air cut off, just for a second. He could tear it off, could strip me down to nothing and reclaim the narrative.

Instead, he releases. Steps away.

“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” he says. “You have that long to decide how the rest of the night goes.”

He walks to the door, pauses, and looks back.

The snow outside is even heavier now. The wind howls against the glass.

He leaves the door open as he goes.

I sit there, the silk clinging to my sweaty skin, the mask fogging up from my breath, and count the seconds until he returns.

I don’t know if I’m waiting for him to come back or for me to break.

Either way, it’s the best night of my life.

When Bentley comes back, he doesn’t announce himself. No fanfare, no footfalls, just the sudden awareness of heat and mass in the threshold.

I don’t look up. I listen: the sound of his breathing, just a notch higher than before. He doesn’t speak, but I can feel him, and goosebumps break out over my flesh.

I grip the desk edge, flex my hands. Under the silk, my body is slick and cold. My cock is already hard, throbbing with a rhythm that matches the pulse in my ears.

He steps into the pool of desk light, jacket gone, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The new scar on his jaw is redder now, a razor slash that gleams in the lamplight.

He stands there, waiting for me to move.

I do.

I cross the room in two strides and slam him back against the desk. The impact rattles the glass, scatters a pile of legal folders to the floor. He grunts, but doesn’t resist.

I grab his wrists, hard, and flatten them to the wood. He’s strong, stronger than anyone I’ve ever fought, but right now, I have the leverage. I drive my hips into his, pinning him in place, the fabric of the robe riding up, exposing me to the cold air and to him.

He tests my grip, but I don’t let up. I twist his wrists, force them together above his head, then use one hand to hold them both. With the other, I rip the buttons off his shirt, each one popping like a gunshot. The fabric splits, exposes the long, pale plane of his chest, the line of muscle and hair that runs straight to his belt.

I lean in and bite the fresh scar. Hard enough to taste iron.

He jerks, tries to pull away, but I hold him tighter.

“Want to see what you made?” I say, voice thick behind the mask.

He grins, teeth bared, and says, “Show me.”

I use my free hand to strip the shirt open, push the fabric down to his elbows. He’s off-balance, wrists tangled in cotton, body arched up and exposed. His breath is ragged, and when I let go to fumble at his belt, he doesn’t use the opportunity to break free.

He wants this.