OWNED BY A BILLIONAIRE

CHAPTER EIGHT : THE CRACKS

I woke to an empty bed.

His side was cold. He'd been gone for hours.

But something was different.

On the pillow where his head had been, there was a note. Black paper. Silver ink. His handwriting.

"Stay."

That was all.

One word.

I touched the paper. Traced the letters. His handwriting was sharp. Angry. Beautiful. Like everything else about him.

The bathroom door opened.

He walked out. Already dressed. But his tie was loose. His hair was damp.

"You're still here," he said.

"You told me to stay."

"You always do what I tell you?"

"No." I held up the note. "This time, I wanted to."

His eyes flickered. Something passed over his face. Surprise? Softness? I couldn't tell.

He walked to the bed. Sat on the edge. His hand reached for my face.

"You're different this morning," he said.

"I'm the same."

"No." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "You're softer."

"I'm tired."

"You're surrendering."

"I'm surviving."

"Same thing."

He kissed me.

Not hard. Not demanding. Soft. Slow. Like he had time. Like he wanted to remember this.

I kissed him back.

His hands were in my hair. My hands were on his chest. His heart was beating fast.

"I have to go," he said against my lips.

"Then go."

"I don't want to."

"Alexander"

"I know." He pulled back. Stood. Straightened his tie. "Carmen will bring you breakfast. Your lesson is at noon."

"What lesson?"

"The lesson where you learn to trust me."

"I don't trust you."

"I know." He walked to the door. Stopped. Looked back. "But you will."

He left.

I sat in the bed. The note was still in my hand. The word Stay was still on the paper.

I folded it carefully. Put it in the drawer of the nightstand.

I didn't know why.

Carmen brought breakfast at nine.

Eggs. Fruit. Pastries. Coffee.

"He's different this morning," she said.

"Who?"

"Mr. Black." She set the tray on the bed. "I've worked for him for seven years. I've never seen him leave a note for anyone."

"It was one word."

"Mr. Black doesn't waste words." Carmen looked at me. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Exactly." She walked to the closet. Pulled out a dress. Red. Short. "Wear this. The lesson is in the garden."

"The garden?"

"Mr. Black wants to show you something."

I ate. Dressed. Walked downstairs.

The garden was behind the house. I'd never been here before. It was hidden. Secret. Walls of stone. Flowers everywhere. Roses. Red ones. White ones. A fountain in the center.

Alexander was waiting by the fountain.

He'd changed clothes. No suit now. White shirt. Black pants. Bare feet.

"You look different," I said.

"So do you." His eyes moved down my body. "Red suits you."

"Carmen chose it."

"I know." He walked toward me. "She knows what I like."

"Does she?"

His hand touched my waist. Pulled me closer. "She knows that I like watching you. She knows that I like touching you. And she knows," his lips brushed my ear, "that I haven't been able to think about anything else since the auction."

"Alexander"

"Shh." His hand moved to my back. Pressed me against him. "Today's lesson is trust."

"I don't trust you."

"You will."

He led me to the fountain. Sat on the edge. Pulled me down beside him.

"Tell me something true," he said.

"What?"

"Something you've never told anyone."

"Why?"

"Because I want to know you."

"You already own me. Isn't that enough?"

"No." His hand found mine. Held it. "Owning you is easy. Knowing you is hard."

I looked at our hands. His fingers wrapped around mine. Warm. Strong.

"I'm afraid of the dark," I said.

He looked at me. "What?"

"When I was a child. After my mother died. I used to lie awake at night, afraid that the dark would take her away again." I paused. "I'm still afraid. Every night. When the lights go out."

"Then why don't you say something?"

"Because I'm already weak. I don't need to be more weak."

"Fear isn't weakness." His thumb traced my knuckles. "Fear is honesty."

"Then what's weakness?"

"Pretending you don't feel anything." He looked at me. "Like I do."

"You pretend?"

"Every day." He stood. Pulled me up. "Now you. Tell me something else."

"I told you something."

"One thing. I want more."

"You're greedy."

"I'm a billionaire." He almost smiled. "Greed is in the job description."

I looked at the fountain. The water was clear. Gold coins at the bottom.

"I used to want to be a writer," I said.

"What happened?"

"Life. Bills. My father's illness." I looked at him. "And then you."

"You can still write."

"On what? My contract?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket. Pulled out a key.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Come with me."

He led me back inside. Up the stairs. Past the library. Past the studio. To a door I'd never seen before.

He unlocked it.

The room was small. A desk. A window. Bookshelves. Paper. Pens.

"A writing room," he said.

"For who?"

"For you."

I walked inside. The desk was wooden. Old. Beautiful. The window looked out at the garden. The paper was thick. The pens were black.

"I don't understand," I said.

"You said you wanted to write. So write."

"You're giving me a room?"

"I'm giving you a space." He leaned against the doorframe. "What you do with it is up to you."

"Alexander"

"This doesn't change anything." His voice was sharp again. "The rules still apply. The collar stays. You're still mine."

"Then why?"

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Because my mother wanted to be a painter," he said. "And my father never let her."

"What happened?"

"She died. Without ever picking up a brush." He pushed off the doorframe. Walked toward me. "I won't make the same mistake."

"With me?"

"With anyone."

He touched my face. Just once. Then he turned and walked away.

I stood in the room. The paper. The pens. The window that looked out at the garden.

I sat at the desk.

And I wrote.

He found me there three hours later.

I didn't hear him come in. I was writing. Words on paper. Sentences that didn't matter. A story about a girl who sold herself to save her father.

"That's not very subtle," he said.

I looked up. He was leaning against the doorframe. Watching me.

"It's not supposed to be subtle."

"Let me read it."

"No."

"Ava"

"It's private."

"Nothing in this house is private."

"Then make an exception."

He walked to the desk. Looked down at the pages. His hand reached for them.

"Alexander, please."

He stopped.

"Please," I said again. "Not yet."

His hand dropped.

"Fine." He walked to the window. Looked out at the garden. "Dinner is in an hour."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're always hungry."

"Today, I'm not."

He turned. Looked at me. His gray eyes were soft again. That same softness from this morning.

"What are you writing about?" he asked.

"You."

"Me?"

"The man who bought me. The man who owns me." I looked down at the page. "The man who might not be as cold as he pretends."

"I'm exactly as cold as I pretend."

"Then why did you give me this room?"

He didn't answer.

"Why did you let me see my father?"

Still no answer.

"Why did you tell me about your mother?"

He walked toward me. Stopped in front of the desk. His hands pressed against the wood.

"Because you're different," he said.

"How?"

"You see things. Things other people miss." He leaned closer. "You see me."

"Maybe I don't want to see you."

"Too late." His hand touched my face. "You already do."

He kissed me.

Not soft this time. Hard. Demanding. His hands were in my hair. My hands were on his chest.

"I want you," he said against my lips.

"Then take me."

"Here?"

"Here."

He lifted me onto the desk. Papers scattered. Pens fell to the floor. His body pressed between my legs.

"The door," I said.

"It's open."

"Close it."

He walked to the door. Closed it. Locked it.

Then he came back to me.

"Last chance," he said.

"Stop asking."

He kissed me again. His hands found the zipper of my dress. Pulled it down. The fabric fell away.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"Don't."

"I won't lie to you." His lips moved down my neck. "Not about this."

"Alexander"

"Shh." His hands found my hips. Pulled me to the edge of the desk. "I'm going to take you now. And you're going to watch."

"Watch what?"

"Watch yourself fall apart."

He entered me.

I gasped.

His forehead pressed against mine. His eyes never left my face.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked.

He moved inside me. Slow. Deep. Every stroke was deliberate. Every stroke was a question.

"Do you feel that?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you want it?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I want it."

"Say my name."

"Alexander."

"Again."

"Alexander."

"Again."

"Alexander."

He thrust harder. Faster. The desk hit the wall. The papers scattered. The pens fell.

"I'm close," he said.

"Me too."

"Look at me."

I looked.

"Come for me," he said.

I shattered.

His name was on my lips. His hands were on my hips. His eyes were on my face.

He followed me seconds later. His body tensed. His head fell back. A sound escaped his throat something raw. Something real.

He collapsed against me.

We stayed there. Tangled together. The desk beneath us. The papers around us.

"Tonight," he said, "you sleep in my arms."

"Is that an order?"

"No." His lips brushed my shoulder. "It's a promise."