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Chapter Eleven – The Return
The ride back to Michael's penthouse felt impossibly long.
Annabell sat rigid in the back seat, her phone clutched tight in her hand. She read and reread his last message—Come back now.
Her heart wouldn't settle.
Was he angry she'd let Tony touch her? Would he be cold and distant the way he'd been that morning? Or would he look at her with that fierce, claiming hunger she'd come to crave?
When the car finally pulled up to the entrance, she almost couldn't bring herself to move. But the door opened before she had a chance to steady her breath.
Michael stood there waiting.
He didn't say a word as she stepped out. His gaze swept over her—checking her, she realized, for any sign she'd been harmed. For a moment, something in his eyes softened. But then it was gone, replaced by an unreadable calm.
"Upstairs," he said quietly.
She followed him inside. Each step up the staircase felt heavier, like her body already knew she was about to cross another line she couldn't uncross.
In the living room, he paused and turned to face her. The lamplight carved sharp planes into his cheekbones, casting his expression half in shadow.
"Did he say anything that confirms what I suspected?"
Annabell swallowed. "He mentioned Durant Holdings. He didn't deny the connection."
Michael inclined his head slowly. "Good."
Her voice trembled. "He…touched me. Just my wrist."
For a moment, the silence was deafening.
Michael's eyes darkened, and a muscle jumped in his jaw.
"Show me," he said.
Her breath caught. "What?"
"Your wrist."
She lifted her hand slowly. He took it in his, turning it palm up. His thumb brushed the place Tony's fingers had been. His touch was gentle, but she felt the tension radiating off him like a storm about to break.
"You let him touch you."
Her throat closed. "I didn't want to. I—"
His gaze lifted to hers, something raw flickering in it. "But you didn't stop him."
She tried to look away, ashamed. "I couldn't. It would have blown my cover."
Silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and unsteady. "I know."
He let her wrist go and stepped closer. His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
"You did well," he said.
The words were simple, but they broke something inside her. She didn't realize she was trembling until his other hand slid around her waist, steadying her.
"Michael…" Her voice cracked.
"You did exactly what I asked."
He didn't kiss her. He just held her, the heat of his body seeping into her chilled skin. The ache of wanting him flared up so sharply it was almost a relief when he finally drew back.
"Come with me," he said quietly.
Her breath hitched as he led her to the bedroom. He paused just inside the doorway and turned to face her.
"Take off your shoes."
Her pulse stuttered. She slipped them off, the carpet soft under her bare feet.
He studied her face, searching. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Say it."
"I trust you."
Michael reached for the tie at his throat, undoing it with steady hands. "Then remember that."
He let the silk slip through his fingers and stepped forward. The way he looked at her—like she was something precious and dangerous all at once—made her knees weak.
"This isn't a punishment," he said softly. "It's a reminder."
Her voice was a fragile thread. "Of what?"
"That you belong to me," he said.
And when he pulled her close, she let herself believe it.
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