Chapter 113
Aria's POV
Ryan leaned forward, his familiar cocky smile dimming as he recognized the seriousness in my expression.
"So what's this important matter that couldn't wait?" he asked, swirling his scotch. "Family drama again? Or is it the ever-fascinating Devon Kane?" His eyes glinted with curiosity.
I opened my mouth to explain when the blonde draped across Ryan's lap shifted, looking up with feigned discomfort.
"I'm not feeling so well, baby," she murmured, her sharp eyes flicking between Ryan and me despite her pout. She adjusted her position, causing her martini to "accidentally" slosh over the rim, splashing across my silk blouse.
"Oh! I'm so clumsy," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "My bad."
The cold liquid seeped through the fabric. I suppressed a sigh, familiar with Ryan's tendency to prioritize his flavor of the week. His fingers reflexively tightened around the blonde's waist, his expression showing mild annoyance that didn't translate to any actual correction.
"I'll go clean this up," I said, standing carefully to avoid jostling my tender ribs. "We'll talk later."
As I headed toward the restrooms, I felt more irritated than hurt. Ryan had always been this way—charming, unreliable, and easily distracted. I should have known better than to expect a serious conversation with a girl in his lap.
As I rounded the corner into the dimly lit hallway, I collided with a solid wall of expensive tailoring. Strong hands gently caught my shoulders before I could stumble backward, the touch careful and steady. My breath caught as I looked up into Devon Kane's granite face, his gray eyes darkening as they met mine.
"We need to stop meeting like this," I said, wincing slightly as the sudden movement sent a twinge through my ribcage.
His gaze sharpened, noticing my discomfort immediately. "You shouldn't be out with your injuries," he said, his voice low. His eyes dropped to the wet stain on my blouse, then back to my face.
"I could ask you the same question," I countered.
"Business dinner," he replied curtly, gesturing toward a private room whose door had just opened, revealing an elegant gathering inside. His hands remained lightly on my shoulders, as if he wasn't certain I was stable on my feet.
A stunning brunette appeared in the doorway. "Devon, are you coming back? Oh—" She noticed me and smiled with practiced charm, though her eyes assessed me with clear territorial interest. "A friend of yours? She's welcome to join us."
"Thank you, but I was just leaving," I responded smoothly, feeling Devon's eyes on me.
"So was I," Devon said unexpectedly, buttoning his suit jacket with deliberate movements. "Marcus, bring the car around."
---
In the parking lot, Devon walked beside me at a measured pace, matching my slower, more careful steps. When we reached my car, his hand hovered near the small of my back but didn't make contact, seemingly aware of my injuries.
"I'll take you home," he said, his voice lower, more intimate than it had been inside.
I knew I should refuse, maintain boundaries, but the thought of driving with my aching wrist made the offer tempting. "Alright," I heard myself say.
Inside his Bentley, the privacy partition rose silently as Marcus pulled away from the club.
"You and Jeremy Pierce seem friendly," Devon stated, breaking the silence.
"We're discussing the renovation of my property," I replied carefully, watching his reaction. "He has some interesting ideas."
Devon's jaw clenched. "Pierce isn't as straightforward as he appears." His fingers drummed once on his knee, then stilled deliberately. "You'd be better off with a different designer. I can recommend several."
"And if I don't want a different designer?" I challenged, raising an eyebrow and turning to face him more fully, ignoring the dull ache in my side.
His eyes darkened as they fixed on mine. "Then I hope you're prepared for complications."
"Unless..." I let the word hang between us.
"Unless what?" His voice dropped lower, the words barely above a whisper.
I shifted toward him, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at my tender ribs. "Unless you're willing to help me instead."
His eyes flickered with concern at my discomfort before his lips curved into a careful smile. "That depends entirely on your performance."
When we reached his penthouse, Devon's demeanor changed. He moved with deliberate slowness, his usual commanding presence softened by attentiveness. In the elevator, he stood close but not touching, his body angled toward me protectively.
Inside his apartment, he turned to me, eyes asking a silent question. I answered by stepping closer, tilting my face up to his.
"Your injuries," he murmured, his breath warm against my lips. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," I assured him, though my heart raced at this unexpected consideration.
His kiss was gentle, almost reverent, his left hand cradling my face while his right hovered near my waist, careful not to press against my injured ribs. I leaned into him, seeking more contact, and he responded by deepening the kiss while maintaining his careful touch.
In the bedroom, Devon was methodical and attentive. He helped me undress with surprising tenderness, his fingers working buttons and zippers with practiced ease, stopping whenever I winced or caught my breath from pain rather than pleasure.
"Tell me if anything hurts," he instructed, his voice husky but controlled.
He arranged pillows to support my injured side, positioning me so my splinted wrist could rest comfortably. When he joined me on the bed, he kept his weight off my body, hovering above me with powerful arms braced on either side.
"Is this okay?" he asked, watching my face with unusual intensity, searching for any sign of discomfort.
I nodded, moved by his care. He learned quickly what movements caused me pain and adjusted accordingly. When I gasped from a twinge in my ribs, he immediately shifted his approach, finding ways to give pleasure without causing discomfort.
After, as we lay together in the darkness, I felt strangely vulnerable—not just physically, with my injuries exposed, but emotionally.
I lay awake beside him, studying his sleeping face. The perpetual crease between his brows had smoothed out, his breathing deep and even. For someone plagued by insomnia, Devon slept with remarkable peace. In sleep, his face lost its hard edges, appearing younger, almost vulnerable.
I reached out with my uninjured hand, lightly touching his cheek, surprised when his fingers unconsciously caught mine, holding it against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath my palm.
My own heart stuttered in response. This wasn't supposed to happen—this moment of genuine intimacy that had nothing to do with our arrangement. I wasn't supposed to care how peaceful he looked in sleep, or feel this strange protective tenderness watching him rest.
I tried to gently withdraw my hand, but his fingers tightened, keeping me anchored to him even in sleep. Giving in, I settled closer, careful of my tender ribs as I found a comfortable position against him, letting his warmth lull me toward sleep, trying not to think about what it meant that I found such comfort in his unconscious embrace.
Morning came with harsh clarity. Devon was already gone from the bed when I awoke, though I could hear him moving around the penthouse. I eased myself up carefully, testing the stiffness in my side before attempting to stand.
I found him in the dining room, scrolling through emails on his tablet while coffee steamed beside him. He wore a charcoal suit, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He looked completely composed, as if last night's tenderness had been erased with the morning light.
"Good morning," I ventured, wrapping my borrowed robe tighter around myself with my good hand.
He looked up, his eyes immediately assessing my movements, noting how I favored my right side. "There's pain medication on the counter," he said matter-of-factly, though something flickered briefly in his eyes before he masked it.
"You have five minutes to tell me what you want," he continued, setting down his tablet.
I blinked, taken aback by his abruptness after the gentleness we'd shared hours before. "Excuse me?"
"Last night, you said you needed my help with something. What is it?" His tone was all business now, as if reminding me of the transactional nature of our relationship.
"Oh, right." I gathered my thoughts, considering how to ask him if he intended to cooperate with the Harper Group.
Before I could begin, the doorbell chimed. Devon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, a muscle working in his cheek.
"Mr. Kane," his housekeeper called, "Miss Stevens is here to see you."
"Send her in," he replied, then turned back to me with cool impatience. "Your request?"
My question died on my lips as a female voice called from the entryway, the sound of confident footsteps approaching.
"Devon!"