TWENTY

The silence was thick, almost echoing, right before I heard it again.

“I said—what the hell are you doing?”

His voice was sharper this time. Clipped. Not yelling, but dangerous in that low, quiet way that said I see everything.

I turned around slowly—too slowly—and there he was.

Still naked.

Still wet.

Still… everything.

Water trickled down his chest, gliding over hard muscle, sharp lines, the kind of body that wasn’t just about looking good—it functioned. Like he could fight, carry, break, and shield with it all at once. His abs flexed slightly with each step forward, and my eyes—traitorous things—dragged lower.

His thighs were strong, tight, carved like stone. Water dripped from his fingertips, from the ends of his hair. He didn’t cover himself. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t bother with modesty. He just stood there, every inch of him exposed—and unapologetic.

And God—he was well-endowed.

Like… unfairly so.

I blinked hard and snapped my eyes back up to his face, but it didn’t help. My brain had already taken a snapshot. It was stored. Archived. On loop.

“I—” I started, voice too high. I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t trying to—God, I just—came to check—on you. Your wounds. From yesterday. That’s all.”

Smooth.

His expression didn’t shift.

My gaze flicked to the red folder on the bed, still half-open. Then back to him.

Wesley stepped forward one more time. Water trailed down the slope of his chest, catching at the edge of one healing bruise.

“Don’t ever come into my room uninvited again,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even cold.

It was… final.

I swallowed hard, throat dry. “Right.”

I backed away quickly, eyes darting once more to the file before I forced them down. My feet carried me to the door faster than my mind could catch up, and once I was out, I closed it behind me with a soft click.

And stood in the hallway for a full ten seconds, face on fire, heart pounding in my chest like a drumline.

Holy shit.

I wasn’t sure what rattled me more—the way he looked at me like I’d crossed a line…

Or the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about everything I’d seen.

Especially him.

Back in my room, I dropped onto the edge of the bed and immediately stood back up again. I couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stop moving. My body still felt too warm, my mind spinning in a million directions.

I paced the room twice, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying to shake the image. But it wouldn’t go.

Not the red file.

Not him.

Every time I closed my eyes, it came back. His voice, his stare, his body—how he looked completely unaffected while I was out here unraveling like some embarrassed teenage girl.

I ran a hand through my hair and groaned into the air.

What the hell was in that file?

Why was it just sitting there, half-open, practically begging to be seen? If it was so private, so guarded, why leave it lying out in plain view?

Then again… maybe he hadn’t expected anyone to come in. Definitely not me.

He’d made that part very clear.

I told myself not to bring it up again. Not to push.

But by the time dinner rolled around, I couldn’t keep it in. Not entirely.

Wesley was already seated when I arrived, quiet and unreadable as always. The table was set—some pasta, a bottle of wine, two plates like we did this every night. The lights overhead felt brighter than usual, but the room itself… colder.

I sat down across from him, the words forming before I could stop them.

“I wasn’t trying to snoop,” I said softly. “I just… was worried.”

Wesley didn’t look up from his plate.

He picked up his glass of wine, took a slow sip, and set it down with perfect precision.

“It’s none of your business.”

That was it.

Flat. Unbothered. End of story.

The silence that followed was loud. It filled the whole room, wrapped around my shoulders like a weight I hadn’t asked for.

I stabbed at my food, appetite completely gone, and told myself to drop it. Just let it go.

But the question stayed with me anyway—

What the hell was he hiding?

And why did it feel like it had something to do with me?

I kept my eyes on my plate, even though I wasn’t eating. The air between us had cooled to a steady chill. I figured that was it—conversation over, wall rebuilt, whatever fragile softness there had been in the bunker officially buried under layers of silence and muscle and steel.

Then Wesley spoke again, voice casual in that way that never really was casual.

“We’re expecting a visitor.”

I looked up slowly. “What kind of visitor?”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t even blink. “My mother.”

For a second, I thought I misheard him.

“Your—” I sat up straighter. “Mother?”

He nodded once, as if it were nothing. As if he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade into the middle of the table.

I blinked at him, trying to process. Out of all the people I expected him to name—an associate, an enemy, someone from his network of well-dressed killers—his mother hadn’t even been on the list.

Not an ally.

Not someone he needed to impress.

Not someone he could use.

Someone… real.

Someone who’d known him before the suits and the blood and the empire.

“What… what does she want?” I asked, though I didn’t even mean to say it out loud.

Wesley didn’t answer right away. He just sipped his wine again, like the conversation bored him.

“Does she know about the marriage?” I added, my voice quieter this time.

He set the glass down. “She will soon.”

A hundred questions bubbled to the surface, but none of them made it out. I didn’t know how to ask them. Didn’t know if I even should.

Instead, I sat there, chewing on the idea in silence.

His mother.

The Mrs. Morano.

What kind of woman raises a man like Wesley?

What kind of woman creates that kind of calm danger—steel under silk, velvet wrapped around a loaded weapon?

I suddenly wasn’t sure what I was more anxious about—her showing up…

Or what she might see when she looked at me.