Ivan hadn't slept—at least, not well. The hours had slipped by in agonizing silence, broken only by the unrelenting images of her. The woman he was sworn to protect. The woman he dreamed about with a desperation that clawed at his chest and tightened around his ribs like barbed wire. She was everything he could ever want—soft, sharp, sweet, wild—but entirely out of reach. Forbidden. Untouchable.

Not now. Not ever.

He spent nearly an hour lying motionless in bed, staring at the ceiling with clenched fists and a storm in his gut. When the torment became unbearable, Ivan groaned quietly, rubbed the fatigue from his bloodshot eyes, and finally dragged himself from the sheets. The room was still cloaked in darkness despite the sun creeping above the horizon, but he didn't bother turning on the lights. He moved like a shadow through the halls, down the marble corridor, until he reached the grand kitchen—the only space in the estate that brought him a shred of comfort.

The kitchen was his sanctuary. His mother used to say that the way to a woman's heart was through her stomach, and he had taken those words to heart. Cooking for her wasn't just part of the job. It was personal. It made her smile, made her sigh in contentment. And Ivan lived for that sound.

He didn't even have to think about the menu. He went straight to work: pancakes, eggs—extra salt, just how she liked them—and a cup of coffee with an indecent amount of cream. Each movement was deliberate, calming. As the aroma filled the air, Ivan arranged everything on a silver platter and carried it to the long breakfast table, placing the meal at her usual spot with an almost reverent care.

And then it hit him again.

A sharp, undeniable ache surged between his legs, still echoing from the dream that had dragged him from sleep. His face flushed with shame and frustration, and he muttered a curse under his breath as he tightened the sash of his thick robe around his waist. His breathing quickened. He braced his hands on the counter and leaned forward, trying to collect himself.

Just breathe. Get it together. She's off-limits. She has to be.

And then, like the universe itself was testing him, she appeared.

She stepped into the kitchen with a soft hum, emerging from the doorway like a damn vision in her barely-there silk pajamas. The fabric clung to her in all the ways it shouldn't—flowing like water over every curve—and Ivan's throat went dry. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, and he cursed himself silently for the betrayal.

Perfect. Just perfect. What a great fucking cure for morning wood.

She smiled at him, oblivious to the firestorm she'd just ignited in his chest—and elsewhere—and walked toward him with an effortless grace that made it so much worse. He couldn't stop the thoughts from spiraling. Couldn't stop imagining how those delicate clothes would look pooled at her feet. Or how her breath would sound if he pressed her against the counter and gave in.

Stop. Stop. You're a damn professional, not a teenage boy.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," he managed, voice low and slightly rough, forcing a grin to mask the heat crawling up his neck. His eyes flicked over her without permission, darkening as desire pulsed through him. He was hungry—but not for pancakes.

Still, somehow, he remembered who he was supposed to be.

Ivan took a breath, stepped back, and pulled out her chair with the precision and discipline that had been beaten into him through years of service. He waited silently as she approached, his fingers tight around the backrest. He couldn't have her. He knew that.

But hell, he could let her eat. Even if every second alone with her was a kind of beautiful torture.