Page 47 of Hers to Command

But there is another possibility. One that is so damn unlikely I dismiss it immediately.

Riccardo Angelo might not dislike me and he certainly likes to fuck me, but he doesn’t truly care about me as a person.

I head down the hallway where we share a bedroom. After we kept fucking, it never made sense for me to claim one of the guest bedrooms. Plus, it would have tipped Mrs. Batton off and Riccardo probably wouldn’t like any gossip. Still, being in the bedroom alone this late in the evening when Riccardo is usually around feels weird.

The ding of my phone interrupts me as I pull off my shirt. I look at the screen and take a deep breath.

Tomorrow, I will be meeting Eric Merlino.

Riccardo

The moment I pull into the garage and see Anya’s convertiblealready there, I feel the tension in my shoulders ease just a fraction.

She’s here.

When I enter the house, the sight of her hits me like a punch to the chest. She’s curled up on the couch, wearing a pajama set that’s cut so low it should be illegal to have a kid’s cartoon character on the front. A half-empty glass of wine sits on the table next to her, and one of her long legs is draped over the armrest. The light from the TV bathes her in a soft glow.

Relief wars with anger. She’s safe, alive, here. But the fact that she didn’t bother to call me, to let me know how the meeting went, makes my jaw ache from clenching my teeth so hard. I’ve spent hours in my office, pacing like a caged animal, imagining every worst-case scenario. Half pissed off at her, half pissed off at myself for caring.

“You’re back,” she says, her voice calm, almost nonchalant, like I didn’t just spend the entire evening wondering if she’d end up in a ditch somewhere because of her stubbornness.

I close the door behind me with more force than necessary, the sound echoing through the room. “You didn’t think to call?”

Anya raises an eyebrow, picking up her glass and taking a slow sip of her wine. “What for? I handled it.”

That casual dismissal snaps the last thread of my restraint, throwing me right back into the mood she put me in during our argument from this morning. “You walked into a room full of men who could’ve turned on you in a second, and you didn’t think I deserved to know how it went?”

I kept my voice impressively soft, but her expression hardens. “I didn’t think I was required to check-in with you.”

“No, but you could’ve spared me the damn heart attack,” I snap, closing the distance between us in a few strides. I plant my hands on the desk, leaning over her. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away.

Of course she doesn’t. She’s too damn proud for that.

She sets the wineglass down on the desk with deliberate slowness, her eyes locked on mine. “It went fine. I don’t need you hovering over me, Riccardo.”

My laugh is short and humorless. “Hovering? I’m not your damn mother, Anya. I am supposed to be your business partner and I fucking expect my business partners to keep me in the damn loop.”

“Give me a break. I don’t need you to micromanage me. And I’m most definitely not interested in letting you control me.”

“You think this is about me trying to control you?”

“Isn’t it?” she challenges, rising from the couch so I have to back-up. Her defiance is like a spark to dry tinder, igniting something hot and possessive in my chest.

I grab her wrist, pulling her flush against me. “No. But I can show you what it looks like when I control a woman if you need things cleared up.”

Her breath hitches, just barely, and I see the flicker of interest in her eyes.

When I smirk, Anya’s lips part, undoubtedly with some sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but I don’t let her get it out. I crash my mouth against hers, claiming her in a way that makes it clear who she belongs to, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.

Even if I’m not prepared to keep her.

Right now, she’s mine.

Her hands come up to push me away, but the fight is half-hearted at best. Instead, her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer.

“You’re an asshole sometimes,” she murmurs against my lips, but the way her body melts into mine tells a different story.

“Definitely,” I growl, dragging her hips against me. “But you’re mine, Anya. And I take care of what’s mine.”

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