تسجيل الدخول(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,
(Sloane's POV) The music died out as the band packed up, leaving the ballroom filled with the hollow sound of polite applause. It felt a world away. Leon's fingers dug into my waist, anchoring me against him. He was a solid, radiating wall of heat behind me, his chest rising and falling against my back in a heavy, uneven rhythm. I could feel the tension in him, the kind of coiled energy that usually preceded a fight or a disaster. He leaned in, his breath hot and smelling of the bourbon he'd been nursing. "Are you sure you can handle this, Sloane?" His voice was a low, gravelly vibration against my ear. "These people don't play by rules. They're bored, they're rich, and they're looking for something to break." I turned my head, my lips almost brushing his jaw. The scent of him, leather and expensive smoke, made my head swim more than the gin. "I'm tired of being cold, Leon," I whispered. "Let's burn. Le
(Sloane POV)Greta's laugh cut right through the final notes of the tango. It was a loud, expensive sound that made the back of my neck prickle. She stepped back from Leon, her hand lingering on his sleeve with the kind of easy familiarity that felt like a slap."Oh, come on," she said, her voice bright enough to carry across the entire ballroom. "Enough of the dancing, Leon. Let's go into the city. See the real Zurich. Have some actual fun for once."She didn't look at me. She looked at him, her eyes tracking his face like she was looking for a crack in the armor. "The night's too young for polite exits. There's a spot in the old town. The Speakeasy. It's the kind of place where things actually happen. I know you're not nearly as well-behaved as you're pretending to be tonight."Herr Schneider chuckled, swirling the ice in his glass. He looked at Leon with the bored curiosity of a man who wanted to see a fig







