Hunter gripped her shoulders and physically peeled her off him.

It wasn't gentle. His fingers dug into her skin, creating space, creating air between them. He looked at her with wild, frantic eyes.

"Stop it," he hissed. "Just stop."

He turned his back to her, running a hand through his hair. He walked to the desk, putting the heavy mahogany between them.

"You don't get to do this," he said, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. "You don't get to storm in here, break into my house, and hug me like you... like you care. It's cruel, Kaycee. Even for you."

"I'm not being cruel," Kaycee pleaded, leaning over the desk. "I'm trying to fix this."

"Fix what?" He slammed his hand on the desk. "There is nothing to fix! You hate me. You've made that abundantly clear for the last three years. You think I'm boring, controlling, and 'emotionally constipated,' I believe was the term."

Kaycee winced. She had said that. At a gala. In front of his mother.

"I was wrong," she said. "I was stupid and I was wrong."

Hunter stared at her. He looked like a man trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. He looked at her dress-the simple black silk, not the flashy distraction she usually wore. He looked at her face-clean, bare, vulnerable.

"Who put you up to this?" he asked quietly. "Is it your father? Is he threatening to cut you off if you don't marry me?"

"No one put me up to this."

She walked around the desk. Hunter moved back until he hit the bookshelf. He was trapped.

"I'm staying," she said. "I'm not leaving tonight."

Hunter's eyes widened. "You can't stay here."

"Why not? We're engaged. It's not improper."

"It's not about propriety!" He laughed, a desperate sound. "It's about my sanity, Kaycee! I can't... I can't have you in this house, smelling like that, looking like that, and pretending to want me. It will kill me."

The raw honesty of his words took her breath away. He loved her so much it hurt him physically.

"I'm not pretending," she said softly. She reached out and took his hand. His fingers were cold.

"Hunt," she said.

His whole body shuddered. She hadn't called him that since they were teenagers.

He looked down at their joined hands. He didn't pull away this time. He looked defeated.

"If you stay," he said hoarsely, "you stay in the guest room. And you lock the door. Because I don't trust myself. And I certainly don't trust you."

"I'll sleep in the master bedroom," she countered.

"No."

"Yes. It's the only bed with the silk sheets I like."

Hunter closed his eyes. "Fine. Take the master. I'll take the guest room."

He pulled his hand away from hers as if he'd been burned.

"I need a shower," he muttered. "A cold one."

He brushed past her, walking fast, putting as much distance between them as possible.

Kaycee watched him go. She heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs, then the slam of a door down the hall.

She let out a long, shaky breath and leaned against the bookshelf. Her legs felt like jelly.

She had survived the first encounter. He hadn't thrown her out.

She walked up the grand staircase, trailing her hand along the banister. She found the master bedroom easily. It was stark, masculine, decorated in shades of gray and navy. But the bed was huge.

She crawled into it, burying her face in the pillow. It smelled of him. Cedar and rain.

Down the hall, she heard the pipes groan as the shower turned on. She imagined him standing under the freezing water, trying to wash away the confusion she had brought into his life.

"I'm going to make it up to you, Hunt," she whispered into the darkness. "I promise."

The scream died in her throat before it could wake the house.

Kaycee sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat. The nightmare clung to her like a second skin-the needle, the basement, the fire.

She checked the time on the bedside clock. 5:30 AM.

The room was bathed in the gray light of pre-dawn. She was safe. She was in Hunter's bed.

But the silence was terrifying. She needed to hear life.

She slid out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. She crept out into the hallway. The house was still.

She went downstairs, drawn by a faint sound from the kitchen. A rhythmic chop, chop, chop.

She peeked around the corner.

Hunter was there.

He was wearing gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a tight white t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. And over it, ridiculously, was a dark blue apron.

He was standing at the island, chopping scallions with exact, focused movements. A pan sizzled on the stove behind him. The smell of bacon and coffee filled the air, chasing away the scent of blood from her nightmare.

Kaycee leaned against the doorframe, watching him. It was such a domestic scene, so normal, so... peaceful. It made her chest ache.

Hunter paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. He didn't turn around.

"You're staring," he said. His voice was rough with sleep.

"I didn't know you cooked," Kaycee said.

He turned then. He looked her over, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on her bare legs before snapping back to her face.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he said. "Put some shoes on. The floor is heated, but still."

"I like being barefoot," she said, walking over to the island.

She hopped up onto one of the barstools. "What are you making?"

"Omelets. Unless you want that green juice sludge you usually drink."

"Omelet is fine. With bacon."

Hunter raised an eyebrow. "You hate bacon. You say it's 'grease trapped in sadness'."

Kaycee laughed. It was a genuine, bubbling sound. "I changed my mind. Bacon is joy."

Hunter watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned back to the stove.

"Coffee is in the pot," he said.

Kaycee poured herself a mug. She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into her palms.

She watched his back muscles move as he flipped the omelets.

"Did you sleep?" she asked.

"No."

"Me neither."

He plated the food and slid a plate in front of her. The omelet was perfect, golden and fluffy. The bacon was crisp.

He didn't sit. He leaned against the counter opposite her, crossing his arms. He didn't have a plate.

"Eat," he said. "Then we need to talk."

Kaycee picked up a fork. She took a bite. It was delicious.

"Talk about what?" she asked with her mouth full.

"About how much you need."

Kaycee stopped chewing. She swallowed slowly.

"I told you-"

"Save it," Hunter interrupted. "I did the math. Aldo's hedge fund is down forty percent. He needs liquidity. You're here because he sent you to soften me up before he asks for a bailout."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He grabbed a pen from the counter.

Scratch. Scratch. Rip.

He slid a piece of paper across the marble island.

"Twenty million," he said flatly. "That should cover his margin calls and buy you a new wardrobe. Take it. And go."

Kaycee looked at the check. The zeros were perfectly formed. His signature was sharp and aggressive.

Twenty million dollars.

In her past life, she would have taken it. She would have thrown a fit about how it wasn't enough, but she would have taken it.

She put down her fork.

Kaycee stared at the check. It was a rectangle of blue paper that represented everything wrong between them. It was his shield. It was his way of saying, I can pay you to leave me alone so you can't hurt me anymore.

She looked up at him. His jaw was set, his eyes guarded. He was waiting for her to grab it.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached out.

Hunter flinched slightly, expecting her to snatch it.

Instead, she placed two fingers on the check and slid it back across the marble until it rested against his hand.

"No," she said.

Hunter blinked. "What?"

"I said no."

"It's twenty million, Kaycee. It's more than your trust allowance for the next five years."

"I don't care."

She stood up. She walked around the island. Hunter straightened, tensing up as she approached.

She stopped right in front of him. She reached out and took the pen from his hand. She tossed it into the sink. It clattered loudly against the metal.

Then she picked up the check.

Hunter watched, mesmerized, as she tore it down the middle. Then again. And again. until it was nothing but blue confetti.

She opened her hand and let the pieces flutter to the floor between them.

"I don't want your money, Hunter," she said, her voice fierce. "I want you."

Hunter stared at the paper on the floor. He looked like he'd been slapped.

"You're... you're tearing up twenty million dollars? For a bit?"

"It's not a bit!" She grabbed the fabric of his t-shirt and yanked him closer so they were eye to level. "I want to be your wife. Your real wife. Not a business merger. Not a tax write-off. I want us."

Hunter's breathing hitched. His hands came up to grip her waist, almost reflexively, to steady himself.

"You don't know what you're saying," he whispered. "You'll get bored. In a week, you'll hate me again."

"Try me," she challenged. "Test me. Make me sign a prenup that says I get nothing if I leave. I don't care. Just... see me."

Hunter looked into her eyes. He was searching for the lie. He was searching for the trap. But all he saw was a fire he had never seen before.

"If this is a game," he said low in his throat, "it's a dangerous one, Kaycee. Because I won't let you go easily this time."

"Good," she said. "Don't."

The air between them crackled. The smell of bacon was forgotten. There was only the heat of his hands on her waist and the desperate hope in his eyes.

Hunter pulled back abruptly, breaking the contact. The loss of his touch was a physical coldness.

"I have to go to work," he said, his voice strained. "I can't... I can't do this right now. My head is spinning."

He turned and practically ran out of the kitchen.

"Hunter!" she called after him.

"Stay here!" he shouted back from the hallway. "Don't follow me. Just... stay."

The front door slammed.

Kaycee stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the confetti of twenty million dollars. She smiled.

He hadn't said leave. He had said stay.