The sun was a physical assault. It sliced through the gap in the curtains, burning Calla's retinas before she even opened her eyes.
She tried to roll over, but her body screamed. Her hips ached, her thighs felt bruised, and there was a dull, throbbing soreness between her legs that brought the memories rushing back.
The chapel. The ring. The ripped dress. The look in his eyes.
Calla sat up, gasping. She looked around the massive bed. It was empty. The sheets on the other side were rumpled but cool.
The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, followed by Christ.
He was wearing nothing but a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the hair on his chest, trailing down over abs that looked like they were chiseled from marble.
Calla's breath hitched. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, her face burning.
Christ walked to the bed. He didn't look ashamed. He didn't look apologetic. He looked like a king surveying his conquered land.
"Awake?" he asked. His tone was back to business-casual, as if he were asking if she'd finished a report.
"Turn around," Calla croaked. Her voice was hoarse. "I need to get dressed."
Christ raised an eyebrow. He gestured to the floor. "Your dress is... compromised."
Calla looked down. The silk heap on the carpet was unrecognizable. Panic flared in her chest. "That was... Francis bought that for me."
Christ's expression hardened instantly. He walked to the closet, ignoring her request for privacy, and pulled out a white dress shirt. He tossed it at her.
"Put it on. Breakfast is in the living room."
Calla caught the shirt. It smelled like him. Cedar and starch. She wrapped the sheet tighter around herself and tried to stand. Her legs gave way.
She stumbled. Christ was there in a second, his hand gripping her arm to steady her. His skin was hot against hers.
The contact made Calla flinch. She shoved him away, hard. "Don't touch me!"
The rejection sparked something in his eyes. He grabbed the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her messy hair, and pulled her face to his.
He kissed her again. Hard. Possessive.
Calla didn't think. It was pure instinct. A cornered animal reaction. She clamped her teeth down on his lower lip. Hard.
She tasted metal.
Christ pulled back with a hiss. He touched his lip. His fingers came away red.
Calla froze. The silence in the room was deafening. She had just drawn blood from Christ Carlson. The man who made grown men cry in boardrooms.
"I... I'm sorry," she stammered, trembling. "You... you started it."
Christ looked at the blood on his thumb. He didn't look angry. His pupils dilated, swallowing the iris. He slowly licked the blood from his lip, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Feisty," he murmured. It sounded like a compliment. It sounded dangerous.
"Eat," he ordered, turning away as if nothing had happened. He gestured toward the living room, where a small foil packet sat next to a glass of water on the coffee table. His gaze lingered there for a moment, an unspoken command.
Calla scrambled into the shirt. It hung to her mid-thighs, swallowing her frame. She buttoned it with shaking fingers and walked into the living room.
A spread of fruit and pastries sat on the glass table. Next to the water, the foil-wrapped package seemed to glare at her. Plan B.
Calla felt a wave of nausea. She sat down, staring at the pill.
Suddenly, a buzzing sound vibrated against the glass.
Calla's phone.
The screen lit up. Francis.
Calla's heart stopped. She stared at the name blinking on the screen.
Christ, who had been reading something on a tablet, looked up. He saw the name.
The air in the room vanished.
