The worn trail circling the property told him he wasn’t the first to overuse it. A three-mile circuit, endless in its predictability. He completed the first lap, then the second.
By the third, his breath was ragged, his hands bracing against his knees as he struggled to catch air.
He lifted his gaze toward the estate.
From this angle, the house looked…normal.
Less menacing.
A casual observer would think a rich heiress lived here. Someone with too much time, too much money, too much space.
His eyes scanned the upper windows.
And then?—
He saw her.
Adria stood in her office, freshly showered, wearing an oversized white T-shirt and gray sweatpants.
Bryson should have ignored her. Should have kept running.
But something about her held his attention.
She looked different.
People normally did when they thought they were alone.
She was pacing, arms waving as, Bryson realized, she argued with herself.
He chuckled.
It was the first hint he’d seen that she wasn’t a cold, soul-sucking robot.
Her wet hair curled around her face, strands sticking to her neck.
Without the makeup. Without the Domme clothes.
She looked…soft.
His gaze traced over her. Objectively, she wasn’t terrible to look at.
Curvy body. Full breasts. An ass that would make anyone jealous.
When he did pursue women, they usually looked like her.
He avoided the delicate ones, the too-thin, too-dainty. His rough edges didn’t mix well with breakable things.
Something nagged at him.
Something about her face.
It was familiar.
He strained to place it, but then?—
She noticed him, and their eyes locked.
For a single, ridiculous moment, he wanted her to stay in the window.
