Page 97 of The Toy Collector

“Not by a stranger. And not without talking about it first.” My voice rises again, but inside, I’m a mess of contradictions. My mind says violation, but my body—my treacherous body—says yes, more, please.

“Tell yourself whatever you need to,” he murmurs, eyes dipping to my silk-covered chest. “But your body tells the truth.”

I yank the edges of my robe closer together, face burning. “Fuck you.”

“Perhaps later.” Standing up, he takes my empty bowl and places it in the sink. “I’m going to shower.”

I say nothing, just sit there simmering, waiting for him to disappear into the bathroom. The moment the door closes, I count to sixty in my head, then make my move. I tiptoe to the hallway, intending to put on a pair of boots, my long coat, and get the fuck out of here.

As soon as I reach the door, I find him there. He’s leaning against it, arms crossed over his bare chest, eyes knowing. Not only did he move without making a sound, he predicted exactly what I would do.

Fuck.

“You have two options,” he states, voice deceptively soft. “Shower with me, or I tie you to the bed while I shower.”

My mouth opens, but no words come out. He’s not joking. There’s not a hint of humor in his eyes, not a trace of uncertainty in his stance.

So I shower with him. The water is hot, steam rising between us like the tension neither of us acknowledges. I try to avoid looking, but that’s damn near impossible. His body is a work of art—all lean muscle and purpose.

Afterwards, we get dressed without speaking; me in leggings and an oversized sweater, him in the tailored black pants and a crisp white shirt that appeared from somewhere while I was sleeping.

The silence has teeth. It gnaws at the spaces between us, forging my questions into weapons I’m not sure I’m ready to wield.

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him button his cuffs with precise, unhurried movements. My fingers twist in the hem of my sweater, betraying the anxiety I’m trying to hide.

“How did you know?” The words tumble out before I can polish them. I swallow hard, heat crawling up my neck. “Aboutthe somnophilia. About my kink list. Nobody but Lena knows about that.”

Enzo doesn’t look up, doesn’t pause in his methodical dressing. “I cloned your phone the day of your interview.”

The simplicity of his confession steals my breath. Not an apology, not an excuse—just a statement of fact delivered with the same inflection someone might use to comment on the weather.

“You what?” My voice rises, thin and sharp. “That’s illegal. That’s… that’s…” I search for a word terrible enough to encompass this violation and come up empty.

“Yes,” he agrees, finally meeting my eyes. His are calm, untroubled by my outrage. “It is.”

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that beneath my anger, beneath the righteous indignation, there’s a twisted little flicker of… flattery?

The idea that this man wants me enough to break laws, to burrow into the most private parts of my digital life just to know me better is… no. It’s sick, and it’s wrong. So why is it making me wet?

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. “What about Georgetown? My internship?” I ask, needing to change the subject. Then a thought hits me. “Wait… is the internship even real?”

“Of course it’s real,” he states, his tone making it clear he considers that a stupid question.

“So why can’t I go? Am I just supposed to disappear from my life now that you’ve decided to keep me at home?” I challenge.

His eyebrow lifts slightly, the closest he comes to showing surprise. “You were drugged, Piper. You’re on two weeks’ bedrest. Medical leave has been arranged.”

“You arranged it, you mean.” There’s less heat in it than there should be. Two weeks away from the office suddenly doesn’t sound too terrible. “At least I don’t have to see Ben,” I mutter, more to myself than to Enzo.

The change is instant. Enzo goes completely still, and even the air around him seems to cool by several degrees. When he speaks, his voice is low, controlled, and more frightening than any shouting could ever be.

“You won’t see Ben again,” he says quietly, like a promise.

“What does that mean?”

He moves toward me, each step deliberate, until he’s standing directly in front of where I sit. He doesn’t touch me, but I feel the heat of him, the solid presence of him, like a wall I can’t see through.

“Do you want the truth?” he asks, and there’s something in his tone. It sounds almost like consideration. As if he’s weighing how much reality I can bear.

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