Emilia
“And for trust we need to establish rules.”
Vincent’s standing in my living room like he’s briefing a unit before deployment, holding what looks suspiciously like a literal contract. Because apparently, in the world according to Vincent, personal safety now comes with legally binding terms and conditions.
“Rules?” I’m standing in nothing but a towel, damp hair dripping down my back. Not by accident. “What kind of rules?”
He doesn’t flinch. “The survival kind.” He drops the paper on the coffee table with the finality of a gavel strike. “No unsupervised outings. No locked doors. No unapproved guests.”
I arch a brow. “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
God, of course he is. Vincent hasn’t smiled since the Cold War. His vibe is pure granite—silent, immovable, unrelenting.
“This isn’t a prison.”
“It’s not summer camp either.”
“I’m an adult.”
“You’re an adult with a stalker, enemies, and poor impulse control.”
The towel slips a fraction. I catch it lazily—then don’t quite secure it. Let it hang. Let him notice.
I pick up the contract. “So what now? Guest approval? Curfew? Scheduled breathing?”
“If it keeps you alive, yes.”
“Maybe I should get a chip implanted.”
He meets my eyes. “If I thought you wouldn’t dig it out with a spoon, I’d already have one ordered.”
My pulse skips. Not fear. Something else.
I move a little closer, letting the towel inch lower. It’s a game now. A test. How far can I push you before you break?
He says nothing. But his jaw tightens.
And then, I drop it.
Clean. Deliberate. The towel slips to the floor like punctuation at the end of a challenge.
I stand there. Bare. Defiant.
“Do your rules say anything about nudity?”
His eyes darken, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let them trail down. Just stares straight into mine.
Dead silence.
Then: “Put something on. Now.”
“Or what?”
“You don’t want to find out.”
“Try me.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, turning away like it physically costs him not to react. “New rule: no weaponizing nudity during active arguments.”
“That’s a rule now?”
“It is if I say it is.”
I bend slowly to retrieve the towel, knowing exactly what I’m doing. “You seem a little... tense.”
“Emilia.”
“Hmm?”
“I will chain you to this apartment if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”
“Is that a promise or a kink?”
He turns then. Fast. Expression unreadable, but his fists are clenched at his sides and his control is paper-thin.
“You don’t understand how close I am to doing something I’d regret.”
My throat tightens. “Maybe I wouldn’t regret it.”
We stand like that. Two people breathing the same heated air, both pretending it’s about safety and not the growing hunger curling between us like smoke.
Then he walks past me.
Conversation over. Temptation dodged. Barely.