Chapter 7

First Night

The penthouse lay wrapped in deep silence. Elena waited until she heard the distant click of Sandro’s bedroom door before slipping out of bed. She wore the black silk slip she’d found in the closet, short, dangerously thin, and far too intimate. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs as she moved barefoot across the cool marble floors.

The city lights glittered far below through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the living area into a sleek, expensive cage. Everything felt too perfect, too controlled. She tried the first door she reached. Locked. A second near the east wing, also locked. Frustration burned in her chest. What was he hiding behind them?

She continued down the hallway and slipped into what appeared to be a private gym. Moonlight illuminated weights, a heavy punching bag, and expensive equipment. At the far end, a nearly invisible door blended into the dark paneling. It opened under her touch.

A hidden office.

The room smelled of leather and sandalwood. A large mahogany desk dominated the space, two monitors dark, shelves lined with ledgers and old books. Elena moved quickly, trying the central drawer. Locked. Beneath the desk sat a small safe. She scanned the surface and found a single sheet of paper with a list of names, some crossed out. Her pulse raced. She didn’t recognize any of them, but the sight still sent ice down her spine.

She pulled out her phone. One weak bar flickered at the top. She moved closer to the windows and dialed Juliette’s number.

Call failed.

She tried again. And again. A message appeared: “Restricted Network.”

“Shit,” she whispered. They had already cut her off. The realization settled like lead in her stomach.

“Looking for something, Elena?”

Sandro’s low, velvet-rough voice froze her in place.

She spun around. He stood in the doorway wearing a black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. For the first time, she saw the tattoos…dark, intricate ink covering his powerful forearms, disappearing beneath the fabric. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the hard lines of his collarbones and the edge of a chest piece. His hair was damp from a shower. He looked raw, dangerously human.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, lifting her chin despite the heat flooding her face.

Sandro stepped inside. The office suddenly felt far too small. His dark eyes traveled slowly down her body, tracing the short silk slip, the curve of her breasts, the bare length of her thighs. When his gaze returned to her face, the air between them crackled.

“Neither could I,” he murmured.

Elena’s heart hammered. Her nipples tightened against the thin fabric under his stare. She hated how aware she was of her own body. The sudden ache between her legs, the way her thighs pressed together. Fear and unwanted arousal twisted inside her.

He moved closer, stopping just short of touching her. She caught the clean scent of his soap mixed with warm skin. Her mind flashed with images of those tattooed arms pinning her down, his body pressing her into the sheets. She swallowed hard.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said softly. The words carried both warning and invitation.

“I know.” Her voice came out breathy. “This place… it’s too big. Too quiet.”

Sandro’s jaw flexed. For a breathless second, she thought he might reach for her. Pull her against him. Kiss her until she forgot why she should hate him. Instead, he exhaled slowly and stepped aside.

“You should go back to your room.”

Elena nodded and brushed past him. As she did, his fingers grazed the small of her back, light, almost accidental. The contact burned through the silk, sending heat straight to her core. She didn’t stop until she reached her bedroom. Only then did she glance back.

He was still watching her, eyes dark and intense in the hallway shadows.

“Goodnight, Sandro,” she whispered.

He gave a slight nod, but the heat in his gaze lingered long after she closed the door.

Back in her room, Elena leaned against the wood, trying to calm her racing pulse. Her body felt electric. She climbed into the enormous bed, but sleep refused to come. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Sandro’s tattooed forearms, the way his stare had devoured her in the slip. The silk sheets felt too cool against her overheated skin. Her thighs were damp.

She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillow. Fear and desire knotted together until she couldn’t tell them apart. This man had taken her life. Yet her body responded to him like he was the only one who could satisfy the fire he’d lit.

Her hand slid down before she could stop herself. She slipped her fingers beneath the hem of the slip. She was soaked. A quiet gasp escaped as she brushed her swollen clit, circling slowly. In her mind, it was Sandro touching her—those inked arms caging her in, his deep voice growling filthy promises against her ear as he claimed her completely.

A faint sound came from the hallway. Footsteps?

She froze, fingers still between her thighs, heart slamming. The footsteps faded. No one came.

Elena whimpered in frustration and yanked her hand away, curling into a tight ball. She wouldn’t let herself finish. Not while he was just down the hall. Not while her body betrayed her so completely.

Sleep came in restless fragments. When dreams finally took her, they were dark and vivid: strong hands gripping her hips, tattooed skin sliding against hers, Sandro’s mouth on her throat as she moaned his name like both prayer and curse.

She woke once, drenched in sweat, the ache between her legs sharper than before.

The first night in Sandro’s world had only just begun, and Elena already feared she was losing control.