The air in the guest wing was thick with the sound of zippers and rustling silk. Myra moved like a ghost, folding her modest wardrobe into a single suitcase. She could feel the heat of his gaze boring into the back of her neck.
Reyansh stood framed in the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the wood, his arms crossed. He had discarded his jacket and tie; his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the veins in his forearms. He didn't offer to help. He simply watched her, his eyes tracking every movement as if he were cataloging his property.
"The room at the end of the hall," he said, his voice a low, emotionless drone. "The black door. That is your new home."
"I'm not a prisoner, Reyansh," Myra whispered, snapping her suitcase shut.
"You're a contractor who tried to defraud her employer with a fictitious lover," he countered, pushing off the doorframe. "In my world, that requires... closer supervision."
He stepped aside to let her pass. As she walked by him, she braced herself for a touch, a grab, another searing kiss. But it never came. He didn't even let his sleeve brush hers. He simply followed her down the hall, watched her place her bag on the ottoman of his massive, obsidian-themed bedroom, and then turned on his heel.
"Sleep," he commanded from the doorway. "We have a 7:00 AM briefing."
He closed the door, the click of the lock echoing like a gunshot. Myra spent the night staring at the ceiling of his room, the scent of his expensive cedarwood cologne everywhere, but the man himself was nowhere to be found.