ROSETTE’S POV
The bastard walked in carrying takeout bags like he owned the place.
Not just any takeout. I recognized the packaging immediately — Laurent’s, the same restaurant where we’d had dinner, where he’d made me that ridiculous wager, where everything had started spiraling out of control.
He set the bags on my desk without asking permission, started unpacking containers with the casual efficiency of a man who’d done this a thousand times.
“You can’t just show up at my workplace whenever you feel like it, Zavien.”
“Thirty days, Little Alpha.” He didn’t even look up, arranging the food with infuriating precision. “I get access to you. You never specified any limitations on when or where, so here I am.”
“I didn’t think I needed to specify that showing up unannounced at my office
