He Suspects

The rules came in the morning.

Typed. Clinical. Folded into thirds and delivered by a silent maid who did not meet her eyes.

Aurora stood in the doorway of the guest wing, the cool marble beneath her bare feet. She unfolded the sheet with careful fingers, her breath steady, her face unreadable. The paper crackled as it opened, stark black ink pressed into thick white stock.

HOUSE RULES — DAMIEN THORNE

1. Do not enter the East Wing without permission.

2. No staff may use the main pool after 9 p.m.

3. You will not sleep in any room other than your own.

4. No unsanctioned interaction with Mr. Thorne outside scheduled hours.

5. You are to be invisible unless needed.

6. No personal use of surveillance systems.

7. Do not provoke.

At the bottom, a final line was underlined in red ink, sharp and severe:

There will be no exceptions.

She stared at the words for a moment longer than necessary. Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. Then, with slow, deliberate care, she folded the paper into a small origami crane. Each crease was perfect. Each wing sharp as a blade.

That afternoon, the crane appeared on Damien Thorne’s desk. Perched atop his daily schedule like a silent message.

He didn’t ask who left it.

He already knew.

—

That night, he watched her. Again.

Security footage. High definition. Hidden feeds for protection—not pleasure. That’s what he told himself, what he told his team, what he’d told his therapist once, briefly, before deciding therapy was for the weak.

But the moment she entered his bathroom—silk robe loose, her expression calm, unhurried—his fingers hovered over the keyboard.

He clicked.

There she was. Center screen.

Candlelight shimmered across white tiles. Steam rose in gentle spirals. She dropped the robe to the floor without hesitation, her body pale and flawless, the curve of her spine elegant as sculpture.

His breath caught.

She stepped into the water, foam clinging to her like lace. Her head tilted back as she lowered herself into the bath, arms stretched along the porcelain edge, neck exposed, lips parted—not in pleasure, but in peace. Like a woman untouched by the chaos she carried.

Damien told himself to turn it off.

He didn’t.

His control frayed as he watched her reach for the sponge, run it along the slope of her collarbone, between her breasts, lower. His hand clenched around the edge of the desk. His jaw locked.

She didn’t know.

She couldn’t know.

But the way she moved… the way her hips shifted, slow and suggestive. The pause. The subtle glance—upward, to the corner of the room where the hidden lens blinked red.

His heart slammed in his chest.

She knew.

And she was daring him.

—

Morning came with dew on the grass and Ivy’s laughter echoing between the hedges.

Aurora was barefoot in the garden, wearing a white sundress so thin the breeze threatened to expose her. She chased the little girl with a toy watering can, sunlight catching in the strands of her loose braid.

Damien watched from the terrace, coffee in hand, eyes shadowed.

Rule three had been broken.

Again.

He stepped down onto the grass, his voice like ice. “You used the master bath.”

Aurora turned. Said nothing. But her gaze lifted to his without fear.

“That’s in the East Wing,” he continued. “You broke the rule.”

She tilted her head.

“There are no exceptions,” he bit out.

Her hands moved slowly.

Then punish me.

His spine went rigid. His control snapped. She knew about the camera. About the watching. About him.

—

That night, she wore red.

Damien hadn’t planned to turn on the feed. He told himself he wouldn’t. Told himself he’d shut down the entire system the next morning. But midnight came, and the silence pressed in, and his hands betrayed him.

He clicked into the bathroom feed.

And there she was.

Red lace, clinging to her body like sin. One candle lit. Hair tumbling over one shoulder. She turned to face the hidden camera, her eyes locking onto the lens like a loaded weapon.

She smiled.

She raised her hands.

Watch me.

Straps slipped from her shoulders, the fabric falling in a whisper to the floor. She stepped into the candlelight, naked, perfect, unapologetically deliberate. Her hands moved over her body in slow, sensual patterns—teasing, exploring, daring.

He couldn’t breathe.

One hand down her stomach. The other cupping a breast. Her hips rolled. Her lips parted. She moaned—but only in her eyes, in the tremor of her spine, the arch of her back. And then she looked up again.

Directly at the lens.

Damien broke.

He slammed his fist into the desk and shoved the chair back. His body ached. His hunger twisted into something violent.

This couldn’t continue.

He had to end it.

—

He called her to his study the next morning.

She entered barefoot again. Hair braided. Face unreadable.

“You’ve broken three rules,” he said, his voice sharp and cold. “Three nights in a row.”

No reaction.

“You used my bath. Walked in the East Wing. Undressed on camera. Are you trying to be dismissed?”

She stepped closer, calm and sure.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Her hands moved.

Then play it with me.

He moved.

Two steps. A hand on her jaw. Forcing her gaze up to his.

“You don’t speak,” he growled. “But you’re the loudest thing in this house.”

She didn’t flinch.

She leaned in.

He kissed her. Hard. Deep. With months of restraint unraveling in one brutal moment. He lifted her onto the desk, swept it clean with a crash, and shoved between her thighs.

“You want rules broken?” he hissed against her throat. “Then I’ll break every one.”

He tore open her blouse. Pulled up her skirt. Her skin burned beneath his hands. She was soaked—already waiting for him. Needing him.

Her fingers moved blindly, frantically.

Don’t stop.

He didn’t.

He slid two fingers inside her, fast, hungry, relentless. She arched against him, moaning in silence, every sound trapped in her body. But her eyes—her eyes were screaming.

He watched her fall apart for him.

And he didn’t stop until she shattered.

—

They lay tangled in heat and shadow when the phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

He ignored it.

The third time, it kept ringing.

With a growl, he grabbed the receiver. “What?”

Silence.

Then a voice. Distorted. Low.

“She’s not who you think she is.”

Click.

Damien froze.

Slowly, he looked down at her. Aurora. Still stretched across his desk, half-naked, skin flushed, eyes open.

And in those eyes—there was something strange.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

But recognition.

She sat up. Reached for the desk phone. Dialed a number he didn’t recognize.

And with one hand on the receiver, the other began to sign.

His blood turned cold.

He watched the movement of her fingers.

He suspects.