[Claire’s POV]
Dad arrives for dinner at Hugh's penthouse at exactly seven, because Richard Winters doesn't do "fashionably late" or any other variation suggesting spontaneity exists in his vocabulary.
He's brought wine—expensive, red, and probably older than me—and a painful smile of concerned father.
"Claire, sweetheart." He pulls me into a hug that's slightly too tight. "You look well. Are you eating enough? Sleeping properly? Hugh isn't making you uncomfortable, is he?"
"Dad, I'm fine. Yes to food, mostly to sleep, and Hugh is the perfect gentleman." The lie tastes like ash, but what am I supposed to say?
Actually, he had his mouth between my legs two nights ago and now he's pretending I don't exist? Once again.
Hugh emerges from wherever he's been hiding—probably his office, alphabetizing his feelings—and transforms into the consummate host. Polite. Distant. Every inch the professional businessman entertaining his partner's daughter out of obligation.
He hasn't looked at me properly since the firm's office. Hasn't touched me. Hasn't acknowledged that kiss happened.
And it's driving me absolutely feral.
Dinner is a masterclass in awkward tension that somehow only I can feel. Dad and Hugh discuss business—mergers, acquisitions, things that make my eyes glaze over.
I push pasta around my plate and contemplate whether throwing a breadstick at Hugh's head would be rude or justifiable.
"So, Claire." Dad sets down his wine. "Given recent events, I think you should learn some self-defense. Basic techniques, how to protect yourself if…"
He doesn't finish, but we all know what he means.
"That's a good idea," I manage.
"I agree." Hugh cuts his chicken with surgical precision. "I'll arrange lessons. Theo can handle the training—he's qualified, while I'm busy with the Singapore expansion."
Of course. Too busy.
Can't possibly spare time to put his hands on me in any context. Very convenient. Very transparent.
"Theo seemed nice the last time I saw him," Dad offers, oblivious to the way Hugh's jaw just tightened. "Good that Claire has someone around her age to talk to."
I watch Hugh nod along, all professional composure, and something petty and reckless sparks in my chest.
He wants to pretend nothing exists between us? Fine. Let's see how long that composure holds when I stop playing nice.
I slip my shoe off under the table, because apparently tonight's the night I commit to terrible decisions. My foot finds Hugh's calf, trailing up slowly, and his hand freezes mid-cut.
His eyes don't leave my father's face. Doesn't even glance at me. Just continues nodding along to whatever Dad's saying while my foot climbs higher, pressing against his inner thigh.
His free hand drops below the table and catches my ankle in a grip that's almost painful. His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise, holding me immobile while he maintains perfect composure above the tablecloth.
"The projections look solid," Hugh says, his voice absolutely level. "I think we'll see returns by Q3."
I smile innocently and take a sip of water. His thumb presses against my pulse point—a warning, a promise, or both—before releasing me abruptly.
My foot retreats. His jaw could crack diamonds, but his expression remains perfectly pleasant, perfectly professional, perfectly infuriating. By the time Dad finally leaves, Hugh looks like he's about to combust from sheer repressed emotion.
"Well," I start, turning to face him. "That was fun. We should do family dinners more often. Maybe next time I'll—"
He's already moving, already retreating, already disappearing into his office without a word. The door closes with a soft click that somehow sounds like "fuck you and your foot" in door language.
I stand there considering my options. I could follow him, demand we talk, force the confrontation that's already happened approximately fifty times because he's a stubborn ass.
Or I could go to bed and spend another night replaying every moment he's spent pretending I don't exist.
I choose bed. Mostly because following him feels too much like begging.
The next morning, Theo arrives with the energy of someone who hasn't spent twelve hours in emotional exile. "Ready to learn how to kick ass, princess?"
"Depends. Does the curriculum include kicking specific asses? Because I have a shortlist."
He laughs, leading me to the cleared space in the living room. "We'll start with the basics. Stance, balance, how to break common holds."
The training is surprisingly fun. Theo's patient, professional, making sure I understand each movement. His hands guide my posture, adjust my stance, demonstrate holds with clinical efficiency.
"Okay, try to break free," Theo instructs, wrapping his arm around me from behind.
I twist wrong, overcompensate, and end up half-tangled with him, both of us laughing at my spectacular failure. He's grinning down at me, hands steadying my shoulders, when the air shifts—charged with something electric and dangerous that makes every hair on my arms stand on end.
Hugh stands in the doorway, home hours earlier from the firm's office than expected, and his eyes are pure amber. Not a hint of gray anywhere, just molten gold that promises violence and possession.
"Theo." His voice is deceptively calm, the kind of quiet that comes before storms. "Out. Now."
Theo's smile doesn't waver, but he steps back immediately. "Sure thing, Alpha. Same time tomorrow, princess?"
"No." Hugh's voice drops lower, more dangerous. "I'll handle her training going forward."
Theo shoots me a look that clearly says 'good luck' before making his exit. The door clicks shut, and suddenly the penthouse feels much smaller.
Hugh doesn't move from the doorway. Just stands there with those amber eyes dragging down my body—over my flushed face, my heaving chest still rising and falling from exertion, the thin workout top clinging to my sweat-dampened skin.
His gaze lingers on the places Theo's hands had been, and I can practically feel the heat of it scorching across my collarbone, my waist, the exposed strip of skin above my leggings.
"Enjoying yourself?" The question sounds casual. It's not.
"Theo's a good teacher." I don't cross my arms. Don't cover myself. Let him look. "Very patient. Very hands-on. Knows exactly how to position a body."
Something predatory flickers across his face, his nostrils flaring slightly. "Is that what you need? Another man's hands adjusting your hips? His body pressed against your back while you squirm against him?"
I snort at his presumptuousness. "Maybe if you'd agreed to teach me yourself from the start instead of pawning me off, you wouldn't have to stand there imagining all the ways he touched me."
When I take a step toward him, his pupils blow wide.
"Wouldn't have to wonder if I liked the way his chest felt against my spine. If I noticed how strong his arms were when they wrapped around me."
He moves then—crosses the room in three strides that are too fast to be human, backing me against the wall with his body caging mine. The heat radiating off him makes my skin flush.
"You want my hands on you?" His voice is rough, scraped raw. His palm flattens against my stomach, fingers spread wide, and I feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric. "That what this is about? Provoking me until I snap?"
"I don't know." I arch into his touch, shameless. "Is it working?"
The word lands like a match striking. His eyes flash brighter, and for one breathless moment I think he's going to walk away again.
Instead, something snaps before his mouth crashes against mine—hard, desperate, claiming in a way that leaves no room for doubt about who I belong to.
His hands frame my face, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I taste fury and want and the complete dissolution of every wall he's been building. I kiss him back with equal desperation, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
His tongue slides against mine, demanding, possessive, making sounds that go straight between my thighs. When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard, my lips swollen and his eyes still blazing amber.
"No more running," I manage against his mouth. "I'm done watching you flee every time we get close."
His forehead drops to rest against mine, breath coming in ragged gasps. "It’s not that easy."
"Then make it so." I grip his tie, pulling him closer until our lips almost touch again. "I'm asking you to stop fighting this and finally take what's yours."