Herminia perched on the edge of the massive oak desk, her legs dangling, exposed and vulnerable. The wood was cold against her thighs.

Hunter stood between her knees. He dipped two fingers into the tin. The scent of menthol and eucalyptus hit her nose, sharp and medicinal, cutting through the lingering smell of whiskey.

He pressed his fingers against the bruise. He pushed firmly.

Herminia flinched, sucking in a breath through her teeth. "That hurts."

"It needs to be worked in," Hunter said. He didn't apologize. He didn't stop.

His eyes were focused on her neck with the intensity of a jeweler inspecting a diamond for flaws. He wasn't healing her; he was admiring his handiwork. The pressure of his fingers shifted, softening into a slow, circular rhythm that felt less like medical treatment and more like a caress.

Herminia's stomach twisted. She placed her hands on his chest to push him away. Under the cotton of his shirt, his heart beat steady and slow. "That's enough. I have to go."

Click.

The sound of the brass door handle turning was deafening.

The door didn't open. It was locked.

"Hunter?"

Barbara Randolph's voice came through the wood, muffled but unmistakably authoritative. "Are you in there?"

Herminia's blood turned to ice. Her lungs paralyzed. She stared at Hunter, her eyes wide with sheer terror. If Barbara walked in now—if she saw Herminia sitting on the desk, disheveled, with Hunter between her legs—it wouldn't just be a scandal. It would be an eviction.

Hunter didn't move. A corner of his mouth quirked up. He looked amused.

"Hunter Randolph," Barbara said, her voice sharpening. "Agatha said the light was on. Open the door. I need to discuss the Cain merger."

Herminia pressed her hand over Hunter's mouth, her palm damp with fear sweat. She shook her head frantically, begging him with her eyes. Don't speak. Please.

Hunter kissed her palm. His lips pressed firmly against her skin, a silent seal of complicity.

Herminia jerked her hand back as if she'd touched a hot stove. A shudder ripped through her body.

"I know you're in there," Barbara snapped. The knob rattled again, angry and metallic.

Hunter finally spoke, his voice calm, deep, and utterly unbothered. "I'm here, Mother."

Herminia clamped both hands over her own mouth to stifle the whimper building in her throat.

"Why is the door locked?" Barbara demanded. "It's seven in the morning."

Hunter looked down at Herminia. His gaze dropped to her chest, then back to her eyes. "I'm changing," he lied smoothly. "I fell asleep going over the quarterly reports. Give me a minute."

There was a silence on the other side of the door. A heavy, judgmental pause. Herminia could imagine Barbara's perfectly manicured nails tapping against the wood.

"Fine," Barbara said through the door. "Breakfast is in thirty minutes. Don't be late."

As Herminia exhaled, her gaze fell on Hunter's collar. The top button was undone. There, right above his clavicle, was a red, angry crescent. A bite mark.

Her bite mark.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. She hadn't just been a victim last night; she had participated. And if Barbara saw that mark on her precious son, no amount of locked doors would save them.

Hunter saw her looking. He reached up and touched the mark on his own neck, his eyes locking with hers. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

The sound of Barbara's heels clicking on the hardwood floor faded into silence.

Herminia slid off the desk, her legs giving way. She landed on her knees on the plush rug, gasping for air as if she had been held underwater.

"That was too close," she whispered, her voice trembling. "She almost came in, Hunter. This is insanity."

Hunter looked down at her. He didn't offer a hand. He towered over her, buttoning his shirt completely, hiding the mark she had left. "Get up."

"I'm moving out," Herminia said, scrambling to her feet. "I'll go back to the boarding school. Or a dorm. I can't stay here."

Hunter laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. He crouched down so they were eye level. "You aren't going anywhere."

"You can't keep me here."

"I control your trust fund, Herminia. I control your tuition. I control the roof over your head." His voice was soft, reasonable, which made the threat worse. "You leave when I say you leave. And right now, you stay exactly where I can see you."

Herminia felt the walls of the study closing in. It wasn't just a house; it was a cage.

"Why?" she asked, tears finally spilling over. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're my responsibility," he said. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jaw. "Use the servant's passage. Go to your room. Fix your hair."

Herminia flinched away from his touch. She grabbed her shoes from the floor, clutching them in one hand. She couldn't put them on; the heels would clack on the floor and alert Barbara.

"Cover your neck," Hunter called out as she reached for the hidden panel in the bookshelf that led to the service corridors.

Herminia slipped into the narrow, dimly lit hallway. The air here was stale, smelling of lemon polish and old dust. It was a stark contrast to the lavender-scented air of the main house. She ran, her bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum.

She felt like a rat in the walls.

She emerged on the second floor, near the linen closet. She paused, pressing her back against the wall, trying to slow her breathing. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt her ribs.

She smoothed her skirt and stepped out into the main hallway.

Lana, her personal maid, was coming out of Herminia's bedroom with a basket of laundry. She stopped, her eyes widening.

"Miss Herminia?" Lana looked at Herminia's bare feet, then at the shoes in her hand. "I thought you were in bed. Why are you... did you come from the service stairs?"

Herminia froze. Her mind raced. "I... I went for a walk. In the garden."

Lana looked toward the window at the end of the hall. Rain slashed against the glass. The sky was black and bruised. "It's pouring rain, Miss."

Herminia looked down at her dry clothes. The lie was pathetic. "I stayed on the terrace. I just... I needed air. My shoes were hurting me."

Lana's gaze dropped to Herminia's neck. Herminia's hand flew up to cover the bruise, but she knew she was too late. Lana had seen something.

"Shall I run you a bath, Miss?" Lana asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"Yes," Herminia breathed, pushing past her into the bedroom. "Yes, please."

She closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her knees. The house was full of eyes, and she had just given them something to see.

The wind on the main lawn was biting, whipping Herminia's hair across her face. It was a memorial service for one of the company's founding board members—a mandatory event for the Randolph family.

Herminia stood on the periphery of the crowd, wearing a black dress with a high, lace collar. It was stifling, scratching against the tender skin of her neck, but it hid the bruise completely.

Barbara stood near the grave, looking elegant and mournful in a veiled hat. She was holding court with a senator, her hand resting lightly on his arm. It was a performance. Barbara didn't grieve; she networked.

Hunter was standing a few feet away from his mother, talking to a group of investors. He looked immaculate in his black suit. Perfect. Untouchable.

He caught Herminia's eye and stepped away from the group. He walked toward her, blocking the wind with his body. He handed her a bottle of water.

"Drink," he said.

"I'm not thirsty," Herminia muttered, looking at the ground.

A gust of wind caught Hunter's jacket, blowing it open. His tie shifted.

Barbara, who had been watching them like a hawk, stiffened. She excused herself from the senator and marched over, her heels sinking slightly into the wet grass.

"Hunter," she hissed, her voice low enough not to carry, but venomous. "Fix your collar."

Hunter looked down. The top button of his shirt had come undone, revealing the red bite mark Herminia had left. It was vivid against his white skin.

Herminia stopped breathing.

"What is that?" Barbara demanded, her eyes narrowing.

"Insect bite," Hunter said, re-buttoning his shirt with maddening slowness.

"In October?" Barbara scoffed. Her gaze flickered from the mark on his neck to the high collar of Herminia's dress, a flicker of cold calculation in her eyes. "It looks like you've been rolling around with some cheap whore. Have some respect for the family name."

The word whore hit Herminia like a physical slap. She shrank into her coat.

"It won't happen again," Hunter said calmly.

Barbara turned her gaze to Herminia. Her eyes swept over the high-necked dress with distaste. "And you. You look like a nun. That dress is hideous."

"I..." Herminia started.

"I told her to wear it," Hunter interrupted. "That cheap fabric she prefers is an embarrassment. At least this has a respectable neckline."

Barbara's eyes flicked between them. Suspicion darkened her face. She didn't like him defending her. "She's too old to be coddled, Hunter. Speaking of which, I don't like her room being so close to the guest suites. We have investors staying next week."

Hunter didn't miss a beat. "You're right. She should move to the East Wing."

Herminia's head snapped up. The East Wing was Hunter's private sector of the estate. It was isolated.

"The East Wing?" Barbara frowned. "That's your wing."

"It's quieter," Hunter said. "I can make sure she focuses on her studies. And keep an eye on her so she doesn't embarrass us again."

He used Barbara's own prejudice against her. He framed it as control, as discipline.

Barbara considered this, then nodded. "Fine. Move her today. I don't want her cluttering up the main hallway."

Barbara walked away.

Herminia stared at Hunter, horror dawning on her. "You planned that."

Hunter took a sip of his water, his eyes scanning the crowd. "Pack your things, Herminia."