Masuk(Sloane’s POV)The elevator ride down to the garage was a blur of fluorescent lights and the heavy, mechanical hum of the cables. I followed a half-step behind Leon, watching the back of his head. He looked steady now, his exhaustion masked by a new, sudden surge of purpose. My anger was still there, simmering like a pilot light, but curiosity was starting to win out. I couldn't let it go completely, though. The image of him walking through that door looking like he'd carried the weight of the world on his shoulders—it stuck with me. So did the fact that he still hadn't explained it.We stepped out into the concrete expanse of the underground parking lot. The air here was damp and smelled of exhaust and old rubber. My sneakers made a soft slapping sound against the oil-stained floor. The echo bounced off the walls, following us like a second set of footsteps."Leon," I said, my voice carrying further than I intended in the
(Sloane’s POV)"Leon?"The apartment didn't answer. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, still in my clothes from yesterday, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. It was the only thing making any noise. No laptop clicking. No heavy footsteps. No Leon.I checked my phone. Nothing. I had sent three texts. Where are you? Are we starting at nine? Leon?I hit his name and listened to it ring. It rang until the voicemail kicked in, that generic, robotic voice telling me he was not there. I hung up before it finished. I told myself he was probably just at an early meeting. He had a life outside this apartment. Outside me.But the voice in my head didn't sound convinced.By noon, I was pacing. The living room floor had a path worn into it now, a track I had carved with my restless feet. I tried to look at the notes on the carbon tax, but the words were just black blurred lines on a page. Every time a car drove pas
(Sloane's POV)Day seven.One hundred and sixty-eight hours of living in Leon's orbit, and the air in the apartment had become a conductor for a current neither of us knew how to switch off. Ever since that night at the Speakeasy, since Greta's voice had dismantled our boundaries and Leon's hands had rewritten the map of my skin, everything was different.We didn't talk about it. We practiced the art of the Great Omission. We focused on the debate. We focused on the data. We focused on anything that wasn't the way my pulse jumped when his shadow crossed mine in the kitchen.But the charge was there. It was in the way he handed me a coffee mug, his fingers careful not to graze mine. It was in the way I caught him staring at my mouth when I cited a statistic, his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second before he looked back at his laptop.By the time the sun dipped low enough to paint the sky a bruised, cinematic orange
(Sloane’s POV)The sunlight today was different. It was sharper, colder, slicing through the gaps in the blinds like a reminder that the world hadn't stopped turning just because mine had fractured.I didn't linger in bed. I couldn't. The sheets felt abrasive against my skin, every movement bringing back a phantom sensation of a velvet chair and the salt-slicked heat of the back room. I moved like I was made of glass.In the bathroom, steam began to fog the mirror. I didn't over-analyze what had happened. I didn't have the stomach for it. The flashbacks came anyway, jagged and strobe-lit. Leon's eyes blown wide and dark. The rhythmic thud of the table against the wall. The way the air had tasted of sweat and expensive gin.Then, I saw it.I tilted my chin up, pushing my hair back. A small, dark smudge sat just above my collarbone. A bruise. It was from where his hand had anchored me, fingers digging in while he u
(Sloane's POV) Leon approached with a heavy, deliberate gait, as if the very air in the room were shrinking to accommodate him. His chest rose and fell in violent, uneven surges. His ribs strained against sweat-slicked skin. His eyes had gone almost black. His pupils were blown wide, unrecognizable, feral. No tenderness remained. There was only hunger, rage, and something fundamentally broken. I tilted my head back against the chair to expose my throat, my lips already parted. No words were needed. No hesitation remained. There was just the raw, animal need pulsing between us, thick enough to swallow. He stopped inches away. The heat rolling off him hit me first: a cocktail of salt, musk, and the sharp metallic edge of adrenaline. He hovered close, still glistening from the others. His length was thick and flushed dark with blood, veins standing rigid under the skin. It twitched once when my breath ghosted over the head.
(Sloane’s POV)The air in the private back room was thick. It smelled of old wood, expensive spirits, and the looming threat Greta had just leveled. It was a small, velvet-lined space tucked away from the main lounge. A heavy curtain shielded it and muffled the city noise outside.Leon stood in the center of the room. His shadow cast long and jagged against the wall. He looked like a man standing on a gallows. His eyes were fixed on me. He searched for a sign of hesitation, a plea for him to stop. I gave him nothing. I sat on a low, high-backed chair. My legs were crossed. My fingers still trembled slightly from what Greta had done to me in the bathroom."Sloane, you don't have to do this," Leon said. His voice was a low, warning growl."The contract, Leon," Greta interrupted. Her voice was smooth as silk. She was already unzipping the side of her red gown. She let the fabric pool around her waist.Anna,







