I bit my lower lip the second those probate papers were signed with Wyatt. Our apartment table still held the scattered documents in late morning light, yet my attention locked on the kitchen counter where his hand now rested beside my hip. I pressed back against him anyway, inviting the steady control he wielded like a promise I could not ignore.

His measured authority always found the cracks in my defiance, soothing the old fear that no one would ever claim me without regret. The shared property tied us together in ways that went far beyond legal ties, but what I needed was his hand to correct me until I had no choice but to beg for more.

How far would my challenges take us before the begging overtook my pride?