Chapter 32

Chapter 32:

Sunlight sliced through the heavy velvet curtains and burned my eyelids. I tried to roll away from the heat radiating against my back, but I was anchored in place. A heavy, muscular arm lay draped across my waist, pinning me to the mattress with the casual certainty of someone who had never once considered that I might object.

Memory returned in a cold, sobering wave. The storm. The way he had held me. The warmth I had melted into against every rational instinct I possessed.

Stupid. Stupid.

I held my breath, heart hammering, and attempted to inch toward the edge of the bed. The arm didn’t shift by a fraction. It was like trying to slide out from under a fallen oak—if the oak were warm, hard muscle and smelled of cedar and rain.

Then, without warning, the weight lifted.

I scrambled to the far edge of the mattress and pulled the duvet up to my chest. Dallas was already sitting up, rolling his neck slowly. Every trace of last night’s vulnerability—the haunted expression, the trembling hands, the rawness of him—had been erased completely. In its place was the Alpha King: cold, composed, and terrifyingly composed in the grey morning light.

He didn’t look at me. He stood, smoothed his wrinkled black shirt without interest, and walked straight into the en-suite bathroom. The door clicked shut. A moment later, the shower came on.

I sat with my hands trembling in my lap, staring at the closed door. I needed to leave—needed to get back to my apartment, back to solid ground, back to the version of myself that hadn’t spent the night pressed against a man who could snap her neck with a thought.

𝖩𝗈і𝘯 𝗈𝗎𝘳 со𝘮𝗆uni𝗍𝗒 oո

But my legs felt like lead.

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door swung open.

Steam billowed out ahead of him, carrying the scent of expensive sandalwood and damp, warm skin. Dallas stepped into the room wearing nothing but a white towel slung perilously low across his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest, tracing slow lines down the defined ridges of his abdomen before disappearing into the terrycloth. The air in the room thickened instantly, charged with something I refused to name.

I looked away, my face burning. “You can’t just walk around like that p>

“It’s my house, Adelia,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor itself. He crossed to the dresser with complete indifference to his state of undress.

“It’s my room,” I countered, locating a scrap of courage somewhere beneath the embarrassment. “Per the contract. We have boundaries—Article 4, Section 2. Mutual respect of personal space p>

Dallas paused. He turned slowly, leaned back against the dresser, and crossed his arms over his chest. The movement shifted muscle in ways that were deeply unfair. A dark, predatory amusement settled into his expression.

“The contract,” he repeated, as though tasting the word and finding it mildly entertaining.

“Yes. You promised safety. You promised professionalism.” I gripped the duvet tighter, hating how small my voice sounded. “Last night—sleeping here—that violated the terms p>

He pushed off the dresser and moved toward me. One step. Then another. The silent, unhurried precision of something that has no need to rush. I pressed my back against the headboard, my breath catching.