Chapter 6

Claire's POV

I woke up to the faint buzz of my phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a new message. My heart did a little flip when I saw it was just a notification from Emily, not him. After our text exchange last night, I expected some kind of response. It had started with a simple "We need to talk" after I got his number from Emily. His initial cold reply quickly turned into a heated back-and-forth when I mentioned the debt and how I could make things "easier" for his sister's care. The conversation escalated until I finally sent my ultimatum: My place tomorrow. Queen Anne Heights. Followed by the address.

And nothing since. No reply from Daniel. I smirked to myself, rolling over in the crisp sheets of my king-sized bed. He was probably fuming, caught between his pride and his desperation for his sister. Men like him, with their rigid moral codes—they're so predictable when cornered.

I stretched, letting the morning light filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my top-floor sanctuary. This place was my escape, bought with the first big bonus I'd earned at Stanton Group. Only Emily and my half-brother Nathan knew about it. No family drama, no boardroom politics—just me and the view of Puget Sound, the water glinting like a sheet of glass under the sun. I padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, the coolness grounding me as I brewed a cup of coffee. Today was a rest day, a rare one, and I planned to soak in every second. I curled up on the couch with a book, the quiet wrapping around me like a soft blanket. Later, I'd draw a hot bath, the kind where the steam fogs up the mirror and the world just fades away.

Hours slipped by, and I was halfway through a chapter when the doorbell chimed. I glanced at the clock—mid-afternoon. Despite my calm exterior, a thrill shot through me. He actually came. I didn't bother with a robe, just walked to the door in my loose T-shirt and shorts, my gold-brown hair a messy bun. I swung the door open, and there he was. Daniel Brown. His face was a mask of controlled fury, jaw tight and eyes like steel.

"Come to see what game you're playing," he said, voice low and hard as he stepped in without waiting for an invitation.

"Come in," I said with a graceful tilt of my body, my voice smooth as honey, pretending he hadn't just invited himself. His eyes, that sharp blue-gray, scanned me head to toe before he walked past, the faintest whiff of his clean, rugged scent hitting me. Soap and something earthy, like he'd just stepped out of a forest.

He stood in the center of my living room, taking it in—the beige long-pile carpet underfoot, the sleek modern furniture, the massive windows framing the bay. His gaze lingered on the framed photo on the wall, me and my mother, Margaret, at my Harvard graduation. Her face, still striking despite the years, carried that same unyielding intensity, her chin tilted up even as she smiled. My own smile in the picture was faint, almost forced. I watched Daniel's face for a reaction, but he gave nothing away.

I grabbed a glass from the kitchen, pouring him some lemon water, the ice clinking softly. "Sit," I said, gesturing to the Italian leather sofa as I handed him the drink. Our fingers brushed, and I felt a tiny jolt, my skin prickling at the contact. He sat, his posture rigid, eyes constantly scanning the room like he was mapping exits. Ex-military to the core.

"Let's get one thing straight," he said, setting the glass down untouched. "I'm here to find out what you really want. This debt, this... whatever you think is happening between us—I'm not playing along. My sister's care isn't a bargaining chip."

I settled across from him, crossing my legs, my shorts riding up just enough to draw his eye for a split second before he deliberately looked away. Inside, I was grinning. So much resistance, so much pride—it would make breaking him all the sweeter.

"And yet here you are," I countered, "in my apartment, following my instructions. Your words say one thing, but your actions..." I let the implication hang in the air between us.

I let my thoughts wander, dark and playful, as I studied him. His casual shirt and jeans couldn't hide the hard lines of his body, the way his biceps strained against the fabric when he shifted. I wondered about him in ways I shouldn't—dirty, raw ways. Would a man like him go down on a woman, really take his time? He didn't seem the type, too controlled, too proud. But if someone did it for him, would he lose that control? Would he thrust hard, pushing himself deeper, chasing his own need? The thought made my stomach tighten, heat pooling low in me.

"West Seattle's got nice weather today. No rain," I said, breaking the silence, my tone light as I stood up. I walked toward my bedroom, feeling his eyes on my back. I grabbed the little surprise I'd stashed in a drawer—a pair of pink handcuffs, soft and flimsy, more toy than threat. When I returned, I dangled them from one finger, a wicked smile curving my lips. "Got these just for you."

His brow creased, his whole body tensing as I stepped close. "What the hell do you think—" he started, but I cut him off, grabbing his left wrist with a quick, firm grip. I snapped the cuff around it, the click loud in the quiet room, and fastened the other end to the metal shelf by the wall.

He tugged once, testing it, his eyes darkening with anger. "You know I could break this in a second," he said, his voice dangerously low. "What exactly are you trying to prove?"

"That's the test," I replied coolly. "Let's see how far you'll go to get what you need from me." I took a step back, studying his face. There was calculation behind his anger now—he was weighing his options, deciding whether playing along might give him information or advantage.

"I'm gonna take a nap," I announced, stepping back with a casual shrug. "Make yourself comfortable." I turned on my heel, heading back to my bedroom, leaving him there, chained up like a damn prisoner in my living room. My heart was pounding, a mix of thrill and cruelty buzzing through me. Let's see how long he plays along.

I didn't sleep long, maybe an hour, but I woke up feeling refreshed, almost giddy. I tied my hair into a high ponytail with a pale green butterfly clip, the strands messy but soft against my neck. A quick spritz of perfume—something light, floral, clinging to my skin—and I was ready. When I walked back into the living room, Daniel was still there, sitting rigid, his cuffed hand resting on his knee. I caught the slight shift in his expression—he'd been looking around, assessing, planning. Not just waiting passively as I'd expected.

I couldn't help it; I laughed, the sound bubbling out of me. "I cuff you, and you just sit there? Really?"

He looked up, his expression flat but his eyes sharp, cutting into me. "I'm choosing my battles," he said, each word measured. "This funny to you?"

I sauntered over, closing the distance, and perched on his lap without hesitation. His thighs were solid under me, warm through his jeans, and I felt him tense, his breath hitching just a little. I tilted my head, my fingers sliding under his chin, lifting it so I could study his face up close. Those scars on his knuckles, the hard set of his mouth—he was a puzzle I wanted to break apart. "Yeah," I said, my voice soft but taunting. "It's hilarious." I leaned in closer, my nose nearly brushing his, the sunlight catching in my eyes. "What, you mad? A big, tough ex-SEAL can't handle a little waiting?"

His jaw ticked, and I felt the heat of his breath on my skin, his body stiff but radiating something else, too—something raw. I smiled wider, pressing a light kiss to his cheek, the stubble rough against my lips. Then I moved to his ear, my mouth brushing the edge as I whispered, "Don't give in too fast, okay? I'd hate to get bored." My words dripped with control, a promise of more games to come.

I pulled back, watching his face, the way his eyes darkened, the way he fought whatever he was feeling. My chest felt tight, my pulse racing under my skin. I stood, finally, and grabbed the tiny key for the cuffs, unlocking him with a quick twist. "What do you feel like eating?" I asked, my tone shifting to something lighter, almost friendly, as I rubbed my wrist.

"Doesn't matter," he said, his voice clipped, still holding himself in check as he rubbed his freed wrist. "But this little power game of yours ends now. Next time you try something like this, you won't like my response."

"Fine. We'll go to my favorite spot then," I decided, ignoring his threat as I grabbed my handbag from the counter. I glanced back at him, slinging the strap over my shoulder. "Relax, Daniel. This is just the start of the game."

He stood, his tall frame filling the space as he followed me toward the door. "That's where you're wrong," he said quietly. "I'm not playing your game. I'm here for my sister, that's it. Remember that."

I could feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken tension crackling between us. Hot and cold, sharp and soft—that was me, and I knew it. One minute cutting, the next kind. As we stepped out of the apartment, I realized something with a jolt of clarity: with Daniel Brown, I was stepping into a power struggle I didn't fully understand yet. He might be following my lead for now, but there was a dangerous calculation in his eyes that told me he was playing the long game. And damn if that didn't excite me more than anything had in years.