“Chancellor Castle wants you to wear this to breakfast.” She drapes it over the back of a burgundy lounge chair, the dark suede leather offering a stark contrast to the purity of white.

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, that’s your choice, but just know the chancellor doesn’t let disobedience go unpunished.”

I fist my hands, remembering the sting that disappeared overnight during my fitful sleep, though the phantom of the burn lingers.

As Selma makes my bed, I grab the piece of lingerie and escape into the bathroom.

Several minutes later, after a solitary pep talk, I stand in front of the full-length mirror with my dusty rose nipples on display in the fitted lace cups. The skirt flares down to my knees, giving a false sense of modesty because the material is sheer, and underneath I’m wearing a thong. My long hair is my only option for modesty, so I arrange it over my shoulders to cover my breasts.

When I return to the bedroom, teeth freshly brushed and bladder emptied, I find the room deserted and as clean as it was upon my arrival yesterday. The curved outer wall is a wondrous panel of oversized windows that reveal a breathtaking view of the sea, and just like in Liam’s quarters, a set of French doors opens to a balcony.

I wander to the glass, brushing my fingers against the spotless surface, and wish I could stay inside this private sanctuary all day, safe from the lustful attention of a man who makes me feel shameful things.

But a glance at the clock startles me into motion. I spent more time in the bathroom than I realized, and now I’m already ten minutes late.

This isn’t good.

It’s the only thought bouncing around my head as I rush through my private sitting room and into the main part of the penthouse. The scent of food—a mixture of cinnamon and sausage—wafts through the open doors of the balcony where I find him sitting alone at a table.

“I assume Selma told you twenty minutes?” He doesn’t look at me as he asks the question, and the nature of his nonchalant tone makes me nervous.

I’m tempted to lie, but I don’t have it in me. Not with him. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time in the bathroom.”

He finally raises his head, his brown eyes a rich caramel from the warm sunlight. A slight breeze disturbs my hair, causing my nipples to poke through the strands. His attention lowers to my chest, and a furrow forms between his brows. Scooting his chair back, he picks up a wooden serving spoon from the table, and I stiffen, assuming he’s going to use it to punish me. Instead, he uses the thin handle to secure my hair into a messy bun atop my head.