Page 93 of The Contract

Her fingers press slightly into my skin, and I feel the tension in her frame begin to ease.

The weight of the moment lingers between us, stretching too tight, pulling too close.

But I don’t want to be the one crashing through her barriers.

I want her to meet me there, at that line her rules have drawn in the sand, and I want the both of us to cross them together.

So, I do the only thing I can before I do something I shouldn’t—I shift it.

My lips curve slightly, my tone feigning casual consideration.

“But if you’d like . . . there are a few alternative solutions we could consider.”

Her brows pull together slightly. “What?”

I exhale, as if weighing the options.

“Drowning. Spoiled little rich boys drown all the time.”

She smiles, catching onto my teasing as it has its intended effect.

“A tragic croquet accident.”

I look at her as if I just had a bright idea.

“I saw him go to the bathroom kind of quickly after the snails. We could feed him a bunch and make him shit himself to death.”

Her eyes widen in shock as a genuine laugh escapes her, the sound breaking through the tension and sending a surge of satisfaction through me.

“Damien,” she chides, shaking her head, but she’s smiling now, and I feel the tension in my own shoulders ease in response.

I smirk, leaning in just enough to murmur, “What? I’m a problem solver.”

Her laughter is soft, breathless, still lingering as she shakes her head.

I should leave it at that. Should let this moment slip by before I do something I shouldn’t.

But I don’t.

Because I can’t.

Instead, I study her. The way her lips are still parted slightly, the way her eyes are warm but guarded, like she’s not sure whether to let her walls down or rebuild them higher than before.

I want to tell her she doesn’t have to.

Not with me.

But I’d be the biggest fucking hypocrite that ever lived.

Instead, I settle for something lighter. Something that won’t shatter whatever fragile thing has been built between us tonight.

“You’re beautiful when you laugh, Trouble.”

The nickname slips out effortlessly, my voice quieter now, rougher.

Elena’s smile falters slightly, and something flickers in her hazel eyes—something I can’t quite grasp before she hides it away.

Her lashes lower, and she exhales softly, her fingers still resting lightly against my chest.

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