I smell him before I see him. That's the problem with fox-shifters—their scent is designed to disarm you. Ryder's hits me the second I push open the bedroom door: warm cedar and something wild, something that makes my hindbrain go soft even when I'm too exhausted to think straight. He's in my bed. Again. Not under the covers—sprawled on top of them in nothing but black boxers, his red tail flicking nervously across the white duvet. His phone is pressed to his chest like he's hiding something, and when he sees me in the doorway, his ears flatten against his messy auburn hair. "You're late," he says. "Court ran over." I drop my bag by the dresser and kick off my heels, feeling the ache in my arches ease. Fourteen-hour days are killing me. "What are you doing in here?" "Waiting for you." His tail does that thing—the slow, deliberate sweep that means he wants something. I should tell him to go back to his own room. I should enforce the boundaries I set three years ago when I bought his contract and told him this was professional, nothing more. Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for the buckle on my second heel. Ryder moves before I can blink. He's behind me, his hands sliding up my calves, his claws pricking lightly against my stockings. "Let me," he murmurs. I close my eyes. I should say no. I should remind him that I'm not that kind of master, that I don't use him like that. But God, I'm tired. And touch-starved. And his scent is everywhere, making my pulse quicken in ways I've been ignoring for months. His fingers work the buckle, slow and deliberate, and when the heel drops to the floor, his hands slide higher. "Ryder—" "You smell like stress," he says quietly. "Let me help." I turn to face him, and the look in his amber eyes isn't the playful defiance I'm used to. It's something darker. Something desperate. I reach for him. The kiss is rough, graceless, three years of restraint breaking all at once. #