Claude Lockhart was not a man easily thrown off balance. His life, his empire, his carefully maintained composure — all of it existed because he kept control. Yet as he leaned against the edge of his desk, catching his breath while watching Mio's sleeping form curled up in the bed attached to his office, he realized control was the very thing he had surrendered today. Willingly. Completely. To her.
Mio lay wrapped in a towel, her damp hair scattered like spilled ink against the white sheets, her breathing soft and steady. He had carried her there himself, cleaned her, dressed her in comfort, and tucked her into his bed as though she were something precious. No, not "as though." She was precious. And Claude, for all his arrogance, knew it more with each passing day.
