I woke up still wrapped in his sheets.
They smelled like him. Like smoke and cedar, and something darker underneath, something that made my belly tighten. The sun slanted in through the tall windows of Kyl's penthouse, painting soft gold across his sharp edged furniture. For a moment, I just lay there, listening to the faint hum of the city far below us.
I wasn't panicking.
I wasn't rushing to gather my clothes, or looking for my shoes under the bed. My body ached in all the right ways, a tender hum of sore muscles and leftover pleasure. But I didn't feel used.
I felt…
Warm. Full. Confused.
Kyl's side of the bed was empty, the sheets still warm.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard a low curse. A loud thump. Something hit the counter.
I slid out of bed, pulling his shirt around my body. It hung off my shoulders like a dress, swallowing my curves, but the scent of him clung to the collar. I padded into the kitchen, barefoot, the marble floor cool against my toes.
Kyl stood by the stove, shirtless, hair a mess. He held a spatula like it was a weapon he didn't trust, and the toaster behind him was emitting a thick, black curl of smoke.
"Morning," I said softly.
He turned, startled. "Shit. I was trying to surprise you with breakfast."
I blinked at the toast curling into a cinder behind him. "You succeeded. I'm shocked."
He chuckled, then reached over and yanked the plug from the toaster. "It's not my skillset."
"No kidding."
He scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward the eggs he'd managed to scramble without burning. "I can order something instead."
I walked toward him slowly. "This is fine."
He handed me a plate of burnt toast, slightly runny eggs, and a single slice of avocado. It was terrible. But he'd made it. For me. And somehow that made it the most intimate thing I'd experienced in years.
We sat across from each other at the island. For a long time, we didn't speak.
I poked at the eggs. "So, is this your usual post-coital routine? Bad food and worse coffee?"
He smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth tugging up. "You're the first woman I've ever made breakfast for."
I looked up at him. "Seriously?"
"Dead serious."
I chewed slowly. "I'm honored. And slightly alarmed."
He watched me, his gaze softer than I expected. "You're not like anyone I've known."
My heart twisted. Something about the way he said it made me feel bare all over again. Not physically, emotionally. Like he saw something in me I hadn't shown anyone else.
"You don't know me," I said.
"Then let me."
His fingers brushed mine across the counter. Just a gentle touch. But it sent a tremor down my spine.
I pulled my hand back, staring at my plate. "This wasn't part of the deal."
"No," he said quietly. "It wasn't."
I swallowed. "I'm not looking for this. Whatever this is."
"I know."
There was silence again. The air thick with the scent of burnt toast and something else, want? maybe fear.
"Why me?" I asked finally.
He set his fork down, pushed his plate away. "Because when I'm with you, I don't feel like I have to be anyone else."
I blinked. "You're a billionaire. You can be whoever the hell you want."
He laughed, but it was hollow. "That's the problem. Everyone wants something from me. Money. Power. Sex. Status. You walked into my life, threw a drink in my face, and told me to go to hell."
I smiled faintly. "That was a great first impression."
He leaned forward. "You're real, Ivana. And real is rare."
My throat tightened.
"Don't romanticize me," I whispered. "I'm not some lost girl waiting to be rescued. I'm just trying to survive."
"I'm not trying to rescue you." His voice was firm. "I'm trying to know you."
And that terrified me.
Because deep down, I wanted to let him.
I stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the marble. "I should go."
His expression didn't change. "You don't have to."
"I know."
He didn't try to stop me. Just watched me walk away, his gaze burning against my back. I found my dress folded neatly on the edge of the bed, my heels beside it. Even in the mess of last night, he'd taken care of my things.
I dressed slowly, Kyl's scent still clinging to my skin. The red silk clung to my body like a second skin, a reminder of the woman I'd become when I was with him: bold, desired, seen.
As I stepped into the elevator, I glanced back.
He was still in the kitchen, clearing our plates.
The man who commanded boardrooms and crushed deals with a single sentence had just burned toast for me and looked at me like I held the secrets to his world.
And my heart…
God, my heart was starting to betray me.
---
Outside, the air was cool. My phone buzzed in my purse. Mala.
Mala: So??? Did he finally reveal his dungeon? Or just make you pancakes in an apron?
I smiled faintly, thumbs hovering over the screen.
Me: Toast. Burnt. But he tried.
Mala: Ugh. That's basically love.
Was it?
Because I was beginning to think the more dangerous thing wasn't the money or the sex or the games we played in the dark.
It was what happened in the morning, over blackened toast, with his fingers brushing mine and his voice asking to know me.
It was letting him in.
It was wanting to.
And I didn't know who that made me anymore.
But I knew it wasn't someone I could lie to much longer.
Not with him.
Not with myself.
Not when his sheets still held the scent of us.
Not when my body still ached in all the places he'd worshipped.
Not when his voice still echoed in my chest, low and certain:
"Then let me."