Fractured Desire

Adrian POV

I had already figured out that people were quite predictable a long time ago. Greed, lust, envy - they all were just different forms of the same currency. This was also true about Cassandra Ramirez. Pretty on the outside, but with poison inside. I turned down her offer once and since then she hadn't stopped holding a grudge against me. That was why right after the moment I saw her cornering Elara Santos at that networking gala, seeing her smile sharpened like a blade, I knew perfectly well what she was up to.

She was wounded, still a bit naive, too trusting, and somewhat awkward from the experience.

I saw Cassandra moving closer to Elara, her champagne glass dangerously tilted over Elara's sketch portfolio. An action - to destroy the designs, the project, and the woman.

Not waiting for Elara's reaction, I acted. With my hand, I caught Cassandra's wrist when she was going to throw the wine on Elara.

“Careful,” I said, my voice low enough to freeze her smile. “You wouldn’t want to make a mess.” while looking flatly at her.

Her eyes glared. She couldn't stand it when she was stopped. She hated me even more because of what I did.

However, my focus moved over to Elara. Her big eyes looked into mine—confusion, pride, anger, all mixed together. She detested being rescued almost as much as I disliked seeing her suffer.

If I were honest, I would say that I should have left her then. She was not my concern. She was not meant to be important. But as Cassandra was going, Elara’s shaky hands picking up her drawings, and something inside me was tightening.

I didn't want to her tear down.

Later on, I found myself looking at her again and again. How she managed to work with the contractors who were twice her size, using only her wit was one thing that I couldn't understand. How she didn't let go even when the situation was not in her favor. She was different, not like the others—too sweet, somewhat manipulative, and constantly seeking approval. She was out of her own blinding light.

Still, that blaze tormented me.

I saw her a few days ago having a good time with one of my junior employees—his hand was a little too close to her arm, his smile stayed too long—it couldn’t have been a problem, but still, anger rose within me, sharp and jealous, surprising me with its intensity.

I didn’t have the right to say that. Elara was not mine. She didn’t want to be.

Yet, when her joy stopped at the moment she saw me from afar, and a blush made its way to her face, I knew she wasn’t indifferent either.

There was something untamed, something dangerous, growing between us.

Her glass of Whiskey Sour was shaking slightly in her hand. Enough. I wasn't going to sit here and watch her drown the sharp, brilliant woman I knew in cheap resentment. I took the glass from her—my fingers warm against her cold ones—and set it down. “Come on, Elara.”

Her eyes, hazy with alcohol and conflict, searched mine. "Where?"

"Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can finally hear you think," I stated, pulling her to her feet.

She swayed against me, her body soft and yielding, a dangerous vulnerability I hadn't expected. I guided her out, savoring the small, silent admission: she was too tired to argue, too tired to pretend she didn’t want to be near me.

The elevator ascending to the penthouse was a suffocating silver box. I held her close, her head resting against my shoulder. The city lights exploded in a glittering expanse beneath us, a kingdom that meant nothing without her in my arms. I didn’t stop until I reached the master bedroom. I lowered her gently onto the bed.

My control snapped. I tore my tie off and it hit the floor uselessly. "I told myself I'd be patient," I grated out, my fingers fumbling with the tiny buttons on her dress. "But watching you tonight... I can't wait anymore. I need you to be real with me, Elara. Right here."

Her breath hitched as the fabric slid down her shoulders. "I can't believe I let you bring me here."

I gave a harsh, dark chuckle. "You didn't let me. You dared me." When the dress fell away, I paused. She lay there, fragile silk and skin, a masterpiece of vulnerability. I saw her lace bra and panties, and with a powerful, hungry force, I ripped them away like a wild animal, the sound of tearing silk a final severing from the outside world.

"You’re shaking," I murmured.

"I'm scared."

I didn't argue. Fear was honest. I leaned down, my mouth tracing the trembling line of her jaw. Then, my hand moved, settling between her thighs. I found her core, slick and aching. With a low, predatory hum, I slipped one finger inside.

She arched off the mattress, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat.

"No more lies," I demanded, working my fingers with a ruthless, practiced rhythm. "Tell me what you feel, Elara. Tell me the truth you won't say in my office."

"Too much," she cried, clinging to my forearm. "A-adrian, please—"

I pulled my finger out and replaced the sensation with the heat of my mouth, kissing her hard, our tongues fighting each other passionately and fast until her mind was swimming again. I was branding her.

I tore my mouth away, my eyes blazing down at her.

"I'm tired of waiting," I stated, my voice a low, commanding growl. I ripped open my pants. She looked at me, her eyes wide, tracing the undeniable evidence of my need. She bit her lip—a subtle, primal reaction. I smirked to see her like that.

I positioned myself, lifting her legs onto my thighs. My gaze locked with hers—the final moment of surrender.

"You wanted to know what I am?" I breathed, hovering above her. "I am the man who will never let you run again."