Herminia perched on the edge of the massive oak desk, her legs dangling, exposed and vulnerable. The wood was cold against her thighs.
Hunter stood between her knees. He dipped two fingers into the tin. The scent of menthol and eucalyptus hit her nose, sharp and medicinal, cutting through the lingering smell of whiskey.
He pressed his fingers against the bruise. He pushed firmly.
Herminia flinched, sucking in a breath through her teeth. "That hurts."
"It needs to be worked in," Hunter said. He didn't apologize. He didn't stop.
His eyes were focused on her neck with the intensity of a jeweler inspecting a diamond for flaws. He wasn't healing her; he was admiring his handiwork. The pressure of his fingers shifted, softening into a slow, circular rhythm that felt less like medical treatment and more like a caress.
Herminia's stomach twisted. She placed her hands on his chest to push him away. Under the cotton of his shirt, his heart beat steady and slow. "That's enough. I have to go."
Click.
The sound of the brass door handle turning was deafening.
The door didn't open. It was locked.
"Hunter?"
Barbara Randolph's voice came through the wood, muffled but unmistakably authoritative. "Are you in there?"
Herminia's blood turned to ice. Her lungs paralyzed. She stared at Hunter, her eyes wide with sheer terror. If Barbara walked in now—if she saw Herminia sitting on the desk, disheveled, with Hunter between her legs—it wouldn't just be a scandal. It would be an eviction.
Hunter didn't move. A corner of his mouth quirked up. He looked amused.
"Hunter Randolph," Barbara said, her voice sharpening. "Agatha said the light was on. Open the door. I need to discuss the Cain merger."
Herminia pressed her hand over Hunter's mouth, her palm damp with fear sweat. She shook her head frantically, begging him with her eyes. Don't speak. Please.
Hunter kissed her palm. His lips pressed firmly against her skin, a silent seal of complicity.
Herminia jerked her hand back as if she'd touched a hot stove. A shudder ripped through her body.
"I know you're in there," Barbara snapped. The knob rattled again, angry and metallic.
Hunter finally spoke, his voice calm, deep, and utterly unbothered. "I'm here, Mother."
Herminia clamped both hands over her own mouth to stifle the whimper building in her throat.
"Why is the door locked?" Barbara demanded. "It's seven in the morning."
Hunter looked down at Herminia. His gaze dropped to her chest, then back to her eyes. "I'm changing," he lied smoothly. "I fell asleep going over the quarterly reports. Give me a minute."
There was a silence on the other side of the door. A heavy, judgmental pause. Herminia could imagine Barbara's perfectly manicured nails tapping against the wood.
"Fine," Barbara said through the door. "Breakfast is in thirty minutes. Don't be late."
As Herminia exhaled, her gaze fell on Hunter's collar. The top button was undone. There, right above his clavicle, was a red, angry crescent. A bite mark.
Her bite mark.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. She hadn't just been a victim last night; she had participated. And if Barbara saw that mark on her precious son, no amount of locked doors would save them.
Hunter saw her looking. He reached up and touched the mark on his own neck, his eyes locking with hers. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
