Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 67: Will He? Won’t He?

Catherine opened her eyes to find Maximilian still bowed over her, his fingers steady at her ankles, thumbs working slow circles as if grounding himself there.

Something twisted painfully in her chest at the sight.

It wasn’t the touch. The touch was... careful. Almost reverent.

It was the way he looked lowered, contained, as if service was the only language he was allowing himself to speak.

Pity burned, sharp and unwelcome. Pity, because he was doing this for her when she had already decided she would never accept his love. Not in this life. Not ever.

She tried to pull her leg back.

It felt good... too good, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t have to do this.

Maximilian didn’t let go.

He shifted her leg, resting it on his thigh, hands resuming their slow, unyielding rhythm. Not possessive. Not aggressive.

Intent.

"He wants me," Catherine said lightly, almost idly. She said it to provoke him. To test him.

To see if jealousy would finally make him cruel.

She watched closely.

His fingers tightened... just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Enough to betray him.

He still didn’t look up.

"Of course, he wants you," Maximilian replied calmly. "You’re worth a billion dollars to his company."

Catherine laughed before she could stop herself. "I’m worth many billions," she corrected, chin lifting. She knew her value. Always had.

She expected a dry remark. A counter. A warning.

Instead, he went still.

His gaze remained on her leg, as if looking at her face would cost him something he couldn’t afford to lose.

"You’re cruel, Katerina," he said quietly.

The word landed heavier than any accusation.

"I’m cruel?" she echoed. Seriously?

He finally looked up.

His eyes were red; not dramatic, not pleading. Controlled. Strained. As if something inside him had been screaming for a very long time and he had never once let it be heard.

"You are."

He released her gently, lowering her feet to the floor as though they were fragile things. Then he stood, posture rigid, jaw locked so tight it ached just to look at him.

For no reason she could name, Catherine’s heart began to pound.

Not fear.

Something worse.

Something warmer.

Different.

Was it the bracelet?

"You’re the one who lied about not remembering the past," she said, because she needed armor. Because if she didn’t say it now, she might reach for him again. "And everything you did to me back then—"

He leaned in before she could finish.

One palm pressed into the mattress beside her thigh, the bed dipping beneath his weight. He was suddenly close... too close... his presence crowding her senses until all she could see was him.

She looked into his eyes.

And then, without permission, from herself or from him... she reached out.

Her fingertips traced the line of his jaw.

Maximilian closed his eyes instantly, leaning into her touch as if he’d been waiting for it. As if restraint had cost him everything, and this... this small mercy... was unbearable relief.

She cupped his cheek.

He rested against her palm like a tired creature finally allowed to stop running.

The room fell silent.

Her heartbeat slowed. The world narrowed.

"What happened that day?" she whispered, her forehead resting against his. His breath brushed her lips; his scent wrapped around her, familiar and dangerous. Her eyes closed. "Who killed whom?"

She felt him stiffen.

Then suddenly, the world tipped.

She was on her back, the mattress yielding beneath her, Maximilian above her, his hands braced, chest heaving, eyes dark and burning with something he had clearly lost control over.

For the first time, Catherine really looked at him.

At the strain in his face.

At the hurt he had never asked her to carry.

At how, in this lifetime, till now, he had watched her needs before his own.

His hand fisted in the fabric at her neckline, tugging once... stopping, as if daring himself to cross a line.

Her body answered before her mind could.

"Zipper’s on the side," she said.

She didn’t think much before saying that. She simply didn’t want him ruining the dress.

But the moment the words left her mouth, realization struck—sharp and merciless.

That wasn’t the appropriate response.

Not to this.

Not to him.

They were not married and this was not an intimate moment.

Do I want him to continue?

The thought flickered... and then everything in her mind went still, as if her brain had simply... stopped.

No more strategies. No more defenses.

Her heart made the decision for her, quietly shifting its weight... not toward her own feelings, but toward Maximilian’s restraint. Toward the way he was holding himself back, as if it cost him blood.

And her body...

Her body betrayed everything.

It leaned toward him, toward the heat and the nearness, craving the gravity of his presence with a hunger she hadn’t given permission to exist.

Maximilian froze.

Shock flickered across his face, unguarded and raw. His finger remained caught at the neckline of her dress, just above her breast... hooked there, unmoving.

Not advancing.

Not retreating.

Suspended.

Dangerously so.

Like Schrödinger’s cat, caught between what was and what could be.

Will he?

Won’t he?

Time stretched thin, each second taut as a wire, humming with everything neither of them dared to say.

Slowly, he withdrew his finger from her neckline. Without realizing it, Catherine’s chest lifted after it, chasing the warmth as though her body refused to accept the distance. The movement was small... instinctive, but it didn’t escape him.

Maximilian’s lips curved, not quite a smile. Something quieter. More dangerous.

His finger hovered just above her skin, close enough that she felt the heat of him without the touch. Then, unhurriedly, it slid to the side.

Drrr...

The zipper came down... slow, steady... deliberate. Each fraction of movement felt impossibly loud in the silence, each breath she took syncing with the soft sound of metal yielding.

Catherine swallowed.

His fingers reached the strap of her dress. Rough fingertips brushed against her smooth shoulder, the contrast sending a shiver straight through her. It wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t rushed. It was reverent, almost careful... as if he were afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly.

Her lips parted without permission, a breath slipping free.

A soft sigh...