175 HIDDEN EYES

Chapter 10

The moment Evan stepped into the office Winifred noticed it.

Beneath the sharp, expensive cologne was something darker. Metallic. Faint but unmistakable. Blood.

He closed the door behind him with the same quiet control as always, coat still on, hair tied back in its low bun. The scar near his left eye looked harsher under the afternoon light. He didn’t sit. He simply stood there, watching her the way he always did—like the rest of the world had already been dismissed.

Winifred stayed on her feet as well, notebook forgotten on the desk. “You smell like blood.”

Evan’s expression didn’t change. “Do I?”

“Yes.” She kept her voice even. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“I’m your therapist. Everything you bring into this room concerns me.”

His eyes cooled. “I’m in no mood for petty questions today, Winifred.”

The way he said her name made the air feel tighter. She should have sat down and reclaimed the professional distance. Instead she remained standing, spine straight, refusing to look away.

“If you’re hurt—”

He moved before she finished the sentence.

One moment he was near the door. The next he was directly in front of her, close enough that the heat of his body reached her. One large hand settled at her waist, firm and possessive. The other rose and closed gently around the front of her throat—not squeezing, just holding—so that she had no choice but to tilt her face up to him. His thumb rested lightly against her pulse.

Her breath caught.

Evan leaned down until only inches separated them. The scent of cologne and blood filled her lungs. His voice dropped to something low and rough.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “I have spent years looking for you and you don't even know it. I have watched you walk through this city thinking you belonged to no one. Thinking you can just talk to people and mingle as you want. That ends now. Every time another man touches your face, every time you smile at someone else, I feel it like a knife. You are not free to give pieces of yourself away. Not your attention. Not your soft looks. Not the sound of your laugh. Those things are mine. You are mine. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

"Evan-"

"Winnie."

The words sank into her like heat. Her knees weakened—not from fear, though fear was there, but from something hotter and far more dangerous. Something she refused to name.

She should have shoved him. She should have shouted for security. She should have ended the sessions permanently and walked away.

Instead her hands stayed useless at her sides.

Evan’s gaze moved over her face, cataloguing every reaction. “Why aren’t you pushing me away?”

She opened her mouth. No sound came out.

A dark chuckle left him. He lowered his head and pressed a slow, deliberate line of open-mouthed kisses down the side of her throat, lingering over the rapid beat of her pulse. His lips were warm. The contrast with the faint metallic scent of blood made her dizzy. When he reached the hollow where her neck met her shoulder he whispered against her skin,

“Mine.”

Then he stepped back.

Winifred stood frozen, cheeks flushed, eyes slightly unfocused. Her breathing was uneven. Evan looked at her for a long moment, satisfaction settling deep in his expression, before he turned and walked out without another word. The door clicked shut behind him.

She stayed exactly where he had left her, heart slamming against her ribs. Her fingers trembled when she finally reached for the glass of water on the side table. She drank too fast, nearly choking, and set the glass down harder than necessary.

Why hadn’t she stopped him?

The question looped with no safe answer. Some buried part of her had wanted the weight of his hand at her waist, the controlled pressure at her throat, the heat of his mouth on her skin. The realization left her shaken and angry at herself in equal measure.

That evening the apartment felt too warm.

Winifred stepped out of the shower with her hair damp and her skin still pink from the heat. She pulled on a sleek pink robe and walked into the living room, stopping in the middle of the soft rug. For a long time she simply stood there, staring at nothing, replaying the feel of his mouth on her neck. His words, 'you're mine.' He sounded so possessive it should be illegal. But the worse thing was... she didn't hate his words. Instead she wanted to see what he'd do if she pushed his buttons.

Without thinking about absolutely nothing at all she loosened the tie of the robe. The fabric slipped open. Underneath she wore a thin-strapped set of pajamas so sheer the light from the lamp made them almost transparent. The cool air touched her skin. She didn’t move to cover herself.

Her phone rang.

The sudden sound made her flinch. Unknown number. She almost ignored it. Something—curiosity, dread, the leftover heat from the afternoon—made her answer.

“Hello?”

A low, raspy voice came through the speaker. “What are you doing?”

Her stomach dropped. “Evan? How did you get my number? I never gave it to you.”

He ignored the question completely. “What are you doing right now, Winifred?”

She stayed silent, pulse racing.

His voice dropped even lower, almost a growl. “Whatever it is, put your clothes back on. It’s chilly.”

Her breath caught hard in her throat. Before she could form a single word the line went dead.

She stood in the middle of the living room with the robe still open, phone clutched in one hand, staring at the dark screen. Bewilderment and sharp anxiety tangled together until she could barely breathe. He couldn’t have known. There was no way he could have known.

And yet he had.

Across the city Evan sat in the dim back office of the warehouse, eyes locked on the center monitor. The feed showed her living room in perfect clarity. He had watched her leave the bathroom in that pink robe. He had watched her stop and stare into space. He had watched her fingers loosen the tie and let the fabric fall open, revealing the nearly transparent pajamas beneath.

His jaw was tight enough to ache.

What the hell did she think she was doing? Standing there half-exposed in the middle of the living room like she had no idea what it did to him? Was she testing him on purpose?

He dragged in a slow, controlled breath through his nose, then another, forcing the urge to grab his keys and drive straight to her building back down where it belonged. If he went there now he would not be gentle. He would show her exactly what happened when a stubborn therapist decided to push a man who had already claimed her in every way that mattered.

His voice was quiet and rough in the empty room.

“You’re playing with fire, Winifred. And I am done being patient.”

On the screen she still hadn’t moved to close the robe. Evan’s eyes stayed fixed on her, dark and burning, while the rest of the city continued on without either of them.