Liam won’t tell me who was on the phone, only that it’s nothing to worry about. The answer doesn’t surprise me. The balance of power between us is already skewed—he charmed my life story out of me on our second date, but I’ve yet to learn anything about his past save the most general narrative.

Born in Ireland. Moved to the U.S. when he was eight to live with his aunt and uncle in Los Angeles. Went to Cal State L.A. and graduated with an MBA in business economics. Made his fortune in… acquisitions.

I still don’t know exactly what he does. It bothers me sometimes. Mostly when I’m not with him, standing warm and adored in his sunlight.

For all his joie de vivre, Liam is extremely private about his work. And though I might be just a moon in his orbit, I’m not without wits. The fancy car, the private, uber-modern Hollywood Hills home, the fact that he works from home and most of his work is done at night… I’m starting to think his casual mention of working for a financial conglomerate was pure fiction.

Despite his easy dismissal of the phone call, it sticks with me. I’ll cut off your dick and shove it down your wife’s throat. Who says that? Maybe I’m being irrational. Maybe it’s just normal male posturing in the business world. I don’t know, but I can’t let this one go. One way or another, I’m going to find out who Maddoc is.

Late that night, as I lie in bed listening to his deep, even breathing, I finally allow myself to consider whether Liam is a criminal. If maybe my joking guess on our first date was true—what he acquires and sells are illegal goods. Drugs would certainly explain his presence at the party that first night.

After several sleepless hours, I slip from beneath the sheets and tiptoe out of the bedroom. I know his home well enough by now that I can navigate it easily in the near-dark.

In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water, grab my phone off a nearby charge cord, and hop onto a stool at the white granite island.

A voice inside me whispers, Do you really want to know? But another, louder voice rebels against the emotional ties Liam has so easily woven around my neck. I don’t wear a collar—never have—but sometimes I think I might as well. The bond is there, even if it’s invisible.

* * *

I procrastinate a while. Check Facebook and Instagram, neither of which I actively participate in. I clear my email inbox of junk. I check tomorrow’s weather and confirm my work schedule this weekend. I play a game of solitaire.

When the threat of being discovered missing from bed is high enough to make my skin prickle, I open my browser and search with the keywords Maddoc, Los Angeles, and Crime.

The first result hits my eyes and mind with a chill that radiates down my back. Goose bumps spread across my body. My heart pounds as I look toward the shadowed hallway. Expecting a tall shadow there. Expecting him to stop me.

He doesn’t come.

Maddoc Donnelly, Businessman with Suspected Ties to Organized Crime, Escapes Justice Again.

I don’t read the article. What would be the point? I’m not shocked, or disappointed, or horrified. I feel nothing—or something if numbness counts. I have my answer, and now I have to decide what it means.

Leaving my phone on the island, I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase a glittering view of the city. Standing close enough that my breath lightly fogs the cool surface, I look for answers when I should be looking for questions. The questions come anyway, teasing through my mind.

Why am I here?

Is the bond I feel real or am I just obsessed?

Is there something wrong with me?

Do I need professional help?

From my vantage point, Los Angeles is beautiful. Though few stars shine above, night camouflages the ever-present blanket of smog. Spread below, the city looks like a cosmic circuit board of currents and purpose. Majestic and mysterious. A veritable Oz.

I hear his soft footsteps. Warm hands cup my bare shoulders and lips graze the hair over my ear.

“What are you doing up, dove?”

His dove. Innocent, according to him. A symbol of peace in his life. He’s never disguised his need for me. Not once since the moment we met. It scares me, the look in his eyes that I’m seeing with increasing frequency.

What I feel in return.

I turn, pressing my camisole-clad chest to his. Muscled arms move around me, hands flowing confidently down my back to my ass. He gives me a light squeeze.

I press my mouth to the pulse at his throat. “Just getting a glass of water,” I lie.

“Mmm,” he replies, dipping his head to drag his lips across my cheekbone. “Couldn’t sleep again?”

I shrug, allowing him to provide a reason. An answer to a question he doesn’t know to ask. Cuddled against him, blanketed in his heat, I can almost forget what I just discovered.

What business do you have with Maddoc Donnelly?

I don’t speak. Can’t.

And when he spins me around, grabbing my hands and pressing my palms to the cold glass, I do forget. I forget everything but him. The scrape of bristle on my neck as his lips find purchase. The rough tug on my hips as my panties disappear.

I gasp as he yanks up my camisole and pushes me forward, forcing my breasts against the glass. My nipples harden at the contact. At his contact.

“Liam,” I breathe.

Fingers dip between my legs, and he growls approvingly when he finds me soaking wet.

“Spread your legs, dove,” he says.

I do.

He kicks them out further, but gently, murmuring appreciation as I bare myself to him.

“Arch your back. Ass up.”

I obey, and am deeply pleased by his muttered expletive. The hint of his childhood accent, which only appears when he’s tired or aroused.

A warm hand smooths down my spine. That’s all the warning I have before he pushes inside me. Bare, because he paid for blood tests for both of us and a birth control shot for me.

My eyes flutter closed, my teeth catching a whimper before it releases. It doesn’t hurt—not truly. In fact this is one of my favorite ways. No foreplay. Just his insatiable desire to claim me. Mark me as his.

I feel his need. I revel in it. I match it with mine by surrendering.

I always surrender to him.