A week in Hugh Kane's penthouse, and I've learned two important things.
First: the nightmares are finally fading.
I can close my eyes without seeing that SUV, without feeling hands grabbing me. The trembling has stopped too, replaced by something far more dangerous—a constant awareness of exactly where Hugh is at all times.
Like my body has developed werewolf GPS without the fun parts.
Second: his "rules" are less about protection and more about torture.
We orbit each other like binary stars—always in proximity, never touching, gravitational pull strong enough to bend light but forbidden to collide. I'd thought distance would dull the pull toward him. I was catastrophically wrong.
It's afternoon, and Hugh is locked in his office taking calls that sound very serious and definitely not like excuses to avoid me. Theo has been assigned babysitting duty again, and jokes on Hugh—Theo is rapidly becoming my favorite source of information.
We're on the couch, easy conversation flowing, when I decide to steer toward more interesting territory.
"So," I start, tucking my legs beneath me, "has Hugh always been this intense? Or did something traumatic happen, like he lost a puppy as a child and never recovered?"
Theo laughs warmly. "Always. I've known him my whole life, and I've never seen the man fully relax. Pretty sure if he tried, the universe would collapse from the sheer impossibility of it."
"That's concerning. Has he ever tried therapy? Meditation? Recreational hobbies that don't involve growling at people?"
"His hobby is work. His relaxation is more work. His idea of a vacation is working from a slightly different location." Theo grins with fondness. "The man operates at one speed: controlled intensity."
I push further, my heart rate ticking up. "Has he ever been with anyone? Like, seriously? A relationship that lasted more than a business meeting?"
Theo's grin fades into something thoughtful. "A few women over the years. Nothing that stuck. They'd get close, start wanting more, and he'd pull back. Every single time. Alpha Hugh doesn't let people in, not really."
"Why?" The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended. "Why won't he let anyone close?"
"Well, he's never told me directly, obviously, but I have theories." Theo shrugs, leaning back. "I think it's a control thing—needing someone makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability is weakness. He's spent his whole life being strong for everyone else. Maybe he doesn't know how to be anything else."
There's a moment of silence. Then Theo's expression shifts, becomes carefully casual.
"Although," he says slowly, "I've never seen him act the way he does around you. The man is different when you're in the room. More alive. More dangerous also. Like something under his skin is fighting to get out, and he's losing the battle."
"What do you mean?" My breath catches. "Different how?"
But before Theo can answer, Hugh's office door opens.
The temperature drops fifteen degrees as I turn my head and see him standing in the doorway, taking in the tableau. Me angled toward Theo, my hand resting on his arm, our knees almost touching.
We look cozy. Quite intimate.
His expression doesn't change, which is somehow worse than if he'd glared. His eyes flick to my fingers on Theo's sleeve, then to Theo's face. The amber is there, barely contained, and Theo straightens like a soldier caught out of uniform.
"I need those security reports reviewed before six." Hugh's voice is perfectly pleasant. Perfectly professional. Perfectly terrifying. "My office. Now."
Theo rises without protest, catching my eye briefly as he passes. The office door closes behind them, and I hear the low murmur of voices—Hugh's clipped, Theo's apologetic.
When Hugh emerges alone five minutes later, he doesn't look at me. Just crosses to the kitchen, pours water he doesn't drink, and stands with his back to me.
"Is Theo in trouble?" I ask, because apparently I have no survival instincts.
"Theo is doing his job." The glass hits the counter harder than necessary. "Which doesn't include entertaining you on my couch for three hours."
"It was two hours, and he was being friendly,” I disagree because I’m petty like that. “Unlike some people who communicate exclusively through brooding silences and slammed doors."
His shoulders tense, but he doesn't turn around. "I have work to finish."
He disappears into his office, and the door closes with a thud that echoes like a period at the end of a conversation I wasn't finished having.
The evening is a masterclass in awkward silence. Theo leaves, Hugh emerges for dinner but barely speaks, responses clipped to monosyllables.
I try asking about his day. "Fine."
I mention the weather. Nothing.
He eats like the food has offended him and retreats without a backward glance.
By nine, I've given up. I announce I'm going to bed early, and he acknowledges me with a grunt that might mean goodnight or might mean he's forgotten I exist.
Sleep doesn't come. I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my body humming with frustration and the impossible ache of being so close to something I can't have.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him—amber eyes, strong hands, the way his control cracks when he looks at me. Around midnight, I gave up entirely.
I need water. Maybe warm milk. Maybe a lobotomy.
I pad down the hallway in bare feet, my thin sleep shirt brushing my thighs. The penthouse is quiet, dark except for… there.
A strip of light under his bedroom door. Not closed all the way. I should keep walking. I should absolutely, definitely keep walking. Then I hear my name. "Claire…"
His voice is rough. Broken. Not calling for me—something else entirely.
I freeze, heart slamming against my ribs. Through the gap, I can see the edge of his bed. And on it… Hugh. Lying back against the pillows, chest bare, hand wrapped around himself.
He's stroking slowly, deliberately, head thrown back and eyes closed. The muscles in his arm flex with each movement, his abs tightening, and the sound that escapes him is pure need.
"Claire." My name again, falling from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, like he can't help himself.
His hand moves faster now, grip tightening, and I can see everything. The thick length of him, the way his hips thrust up to meet his own touch, the desperate tension building in every line of his body.
I should look away. I should leave. Instead, I stand frozen, heat pooling between my thighs, breath coming shallow and fast.
Watching him pleasure himself to the thought of me.
Watching his control finally, completely shatter.
His breathing grows ragged, strokes urgent. "Goddess, Claire—"
The words break off into a groan, deep and guttural, and then he's coming. His body slightly arching off the bed, release spilling over his hand while my name echoes through the room.
I bolt.
Back to my room, door closed, heart pounding so hard I'm surprised he doesn’t hear it. I press my back against the wall and try to breathe, but all I can see is him—desperate and wanting and saying my name like it's the only word he knows.
He wants me. He's been pushing me away, keeping his distance, pretending he can resist this bond—and the whole time, he's been desperate for me.
I slide down the wall to the floor, my whole body aching. The image won't leave my mind. His voice, rough and broken. The way he looked when he finally let go.
I press my thighs together and try not to scream. Because now I know the truth: Hugh Kane isn't fighting me. He's fighting himself.
And he's losing.