POV: Rian
The silence in the penthouse was heavier than the screaming had been.
I woke up tangled in a nest of blankets I didn't remember building. The air in the Guest Suite was thick, heavy, and stale—smelling of dried sweat, spent adrenaline, and the sickly-sweet, cloying scent of overripe vanilla.
It was the smell of an Omega in distress.
My body felt like it had been thrown off a building. My muscles ached with a deep, bruising fatigue. My throat felt raw, scratchy and swollen, like I had swallowed glass. My skin was sensitive, buzzing with the phantom touches of a fever that had burned through me for ninety-six hours.
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. The hunger was gone. The heat had broken.
Now, there was only the shame.
It crashed over me in a cold, suffocating wave. I remembered begging. I remembered scratching at the door until my fingernails bled. I remembered the things I had shouted—filthy, desperate promises of what I would do if he just opened the door.
"Oh god," I groaned, throwing a heavy arm over my eyes.
I wanted to dissolve into the mattress. I wanted to climb out the window and plummet to the street below rather than face the man who had listened to every pathetic whimper.
But hiding wasn't an option. I was still a prisoner.
I forced myself up. My legs were shaky, like a newborn foal's. I stripped off the ruined clothes—the white shirt I had stolen from him was crumpled in a ball on the floor—and walked into the shower.
I turned the water to scalding. I scrubbed my skin until it was red, trying to wash away the scent of my own desperation. I brushed my teeth three times to get the taste of whining out of my mouth.
When I stepped out, there was a fresh set of clothes waiting on the counter. Varrick's staff was invisible and terrifyingly efficient.
I dressed slowly. Black trousers. A stiff white button-down shirt. I buttoned it all the way to the top, hiding my neck. I needed armor. I needed to be the cold, detached courier again. I needed to pretend that I hadn't spent the last four days losing my mind over the man holding my leash.
I took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked out into the living area.
The penthouse was bright, the morning sun reflecting off the chrome and glass.
Varrick was there, of course.
He was sitting at the head of the long dining table, a tablet in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other.
He looked infuriatingly perfect.
Gone was the disheveled, bearded guard dog I had seen in the hallway yesterday. He was freshly shaved. He wore a crisp charcoal suit, the jacket tailored to perfection. His hair was slicked back. Not a hair out of place. It was as if the chaos of the last few days had never touched him.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"There is soup and toast on the counter," he said, his voice calm and deep. "Eat. You lost five pounds."
"I'm not hungry," I rasped.
I winced at the sound. My voice was wrecked—a gravelly whisper that betrayed exactly how much screaming I had done.
Varrick finally looked up.
His dark eyes swept over me, lingering on the buttoned-up collar of my shirt. His expression was unreadable, but the air around him shifted. The scent of burnt cedar thickened, possessive and smug.
"Sit down, Rian."
"I'd rather stand," I said, leaning against the wall for support. My legs were still trembling, but I refused to let him see it. "In fact, I'd like to discuss my duties for the day. Since the... distraction... is over, I assume I can return to the archives. I want to finish the shipping logs."
Varrick set his tablet down slowly. The sound of glass hitting wood echoed in the cavernous room.
"A distraction," he repeated, testing the word like it was sour wine.
"Yes," I lied, staring at a spot on the wall over his shoulder. "It was a biological inconvenience. A side effect of the withdrawal. I apologize if I was... loud. Or bothersome. I wasn't myself."
Varrick stood up.
The movement was fluid and predatory. I fought the urge to step back as he walked around the table. He stopped right in front of me, forcing me to tilt my head back to look at him.
"You weren't yourself?" he asked softly.
"No," I insisted, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought he could hear it. "I was delirious. Whatever I said... whatever I asked for... it was just the heat talking. It meant nothing."
Varrick laughed.
It was a low, dark sound that vibrated through the floorboards and settled straight in my chest.
"You're a terrible liar, little thief."
He reached out, his fingers hooking into the stiff collar of my shirt. He didn't unbutton it. He just tugged me forward until our chests brushed. The heat radiating off him was dizzying.
"You were delirious, yes," he murmured, leaning down until his lips grazed the shell of my ear. "But you were also honest."
"Varrick, don't—"
"You weren't shy when you were scratching at the wood, Rian," he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr. "You weren't calling for 'anyone.' You were calling for me. You described, in very vivid detail, exactly how you wanted me to knot you. You told me exactly where you wanted my hands."
My face burned. Shame, hot and humiliating, flooded my veins. "Stop it."
"Why?" Varrick pulled back, his dark eyes dancing with amusement and something darker—hunger. "Are you embarrassed? Don't be. You have a very pretty voice when you beg."
I shoved at his chest, but he was like a marble statue. He didn't budge.
"You left me in there," I accused, my voice breaking. I tried to use anger to cover the embarrassment. "You locked me in like an animal."
"And I sat right outside the door for four days," Varrick countered, his amusement vanishing instantly. His eyes turned serious, intense. "I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I listened to every breath you took to make sure you didn't hurt yourself."
I froze. "You... you stayed?"
"I told you," he said, his thumb brushing my cheekbone, wiping away a phantom tear. "I protect what is mine. Even from myself."
I looked at him—really looked at him. Beneath the perfect suit, I saw the fatigue still lingering in his eyes. I saw the tension in his shoulders. He had suffered just as much as I had, denying his own instincts to keep me safe.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why didn't you just open the door?"
"Because you were vulnerable," Varrick said simply. "And I don't take things that can't say 'no'."
He let go of my collar and stepped back, checking his watch as if he hadn't just shattered my entire worldview.
"Eat your breakfast. Then go to your room and rest. We aren't organizing archives today."
He turned to walk toward the elevator, buttoning his suit jacket.
"Where are you going?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
Varrick paused, throwing one last glance over his shoulder.
"To the gym. I have four days of frustration to work off." His eyes dropped to my waist, then back up to my eyes. "Unless you'd like to help me with that?"
My mouth went dry. The memory of my heat—of needing him—flared up, treacherous and hot.
Varrick smirked—a sharp, wolfish grin that promised trouble.
"Didn't think so. Rest up, Rian. Tomorrow, we go out."
"Out?" I asked, surprised. "I thought I wasn't allowed to leave."
"The Governor's Gala," Varrick said as the elevator doors opened. "It's time the city saw exactly who sits at my table. And I need you to look the part."
The doors slid shut, cutting him off from view.
I stood alone in the silence of the kitchen, touching the collar of my shirt where his fingers had been. I had tried to build a wall between us this morning. I had tried to be the professional debtor working off a loan.
But with a few words, Varrick had torn it down.
He hadn't just survived my heat. He had memorized it.
And God help me... I didn't hate him for it.