Seven

The air outside is sharp against my skin.

I rub my palms up and down my arms as I stare down the road. Cars line the curb and fill the parking lot, their headlights cutting through the evening gloom.

I had to step out.

I needed air—real air. If I’d stayed inside one more minute, I might’ve lost it. Caused a scene. Maybe even embarrassed myself.

I still can’t wrap my head around it.

Dominique Voss is inside. Inside, smiling, shaking hands, giving speeches. Saint José’s newest shareholder.

How the hell is that my life?

After that party Monique dragged me to, I thought I’d never see him again. I hoped I’d never see him again.

But no. Life’s got jokes.

He just walked right back in like he owns my story—like he’s here to rewrite the whole damn thing.

Why won’t he just go away?

“Red looks good on you.”

The voice makes my stomach tighten.

I turn.

And there he is.

Standing a few feet away. Cool. Composed. Ocean-blue eyes locked on me like he’s already won something I didn’t know I was competing for.

For a second, I just stare. Really stare.

His jaw is tense, like he’s been clenching it all night. His features are unfairly perfect—sharp, masculine, calculated. He’s sexy in the worst possible way. Dangerous in a way that makes you second-guess yourself. He reeks of wealth, control, and something darker underneath.

This isn’t your average spoiled billionaire in a tailored suit.

No—Dominique Voss is the kind of man who built his empire with blood on his hands and charm on his lips. And now he’s standing in front of me like a problem I’ll never be rid of.

He runs his gaze down my body, slow and deliberate, before his eyes return to mine. He steps closer, leaving barely a few inches between us. His face is unreadable. Blank, almost—but I can feel the heat coming off him in waves.

I hate that I want to know what he’s thinking.

I’m good at reading people. One glance and I usually get a feel for who they are. But Dominique Voss?

He’s a Rubik’s Cube designed by Satan himself.

The more I look, the less sense he makes.

And it’s frustrating as hell.

And worst of all? He smells like pine and smoke and expensive cologne—like power bottled and sold at luxury counters.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, voice sharp.

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s outside. People come out for air. Privacy.”

“You know what I mean,” I say, pointing toward the hospital. “What are you doing here?”

His lips twitch into something close to a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“This isn’t about you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

I cross my arms, resisting the urge to punch the smug off his face.

“It isn’t about me?” I snap. “Then explain how you just happen to become a shareholder at the hospital I work for. Why are you doing this? What are you trying to prove?”

He says nothing. Just watches me like I’m some amusing little storm unraveling in front of him.

“Is this some power move?” I demand. “You trying to show me that you can control my life? That you can snap your fingers and get me fired just because I scratched your fucking car?”

My voice cracks with frustration. I don’t even care anymore.

I’m breathing hard, the cold forgotten, the tequila simmering under my skin.

I wait for him to say something. Anything.

He’s smirking now.

This motherfucker is actually smirking after my outburst.

Like this is funny to him.

Amusing.

God, I want to wipe that smug look off his pretty face—and maybe rub it against the pavement while I’m at it.

He looks so calm, so collected, so fucking put together, and it pisses me off more than I can explain.

I let out a breath and drag my fingers through my hair. “Look, I’m sorry I hit your car, alright? I’ve said it a hundred times. I even offered to pay. But you—” I wave my hand at him “—you can’t just barge into my life and try to fuck shit up.”

The smirk disappears.

Just like that, his face is blank again. Cool. Still.

“What do you think this is?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? You can’t just go around telling someone they owe you because they—” I groan “—hit your car. And, okay, fine. Ran off.”

He shrugs. “Actually, I can. And you do owe me.”

I groan again.

Why’s he so fucking difficult?

“I don’t owe you shit. I offered to pay, but you wouldn’t take my money. Remember?”

“That’s because I’ve fixed my car and I don’t need your money. You didn’t think I would just let my car sit in my garage and wait for you to magically come back so you could pay for repairs, did you?” He pauses. “But I know you’re smarter than that, Robyn.”

Robyn.

My name sounds foreign coming from him—smooth and low like he’s tasted it before.

My heart gives a stupid, unnecessary skip.

“How do you know my name?”

His lips twitch again. Not quite a smile, but close. He licks his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and steps forward. Too close.

I step back instinctively, only to bump against the hard surface of a car. My breath catches.

Dominique towers over me now, his presence heavy, imposing. His scent—woodsy, clean, expensive—wraps around me like invisible rope.

His eyes stay locked on mine as he closes the last few inches. My back is pressed against the car, but I don’t flinch. I cross my arms, refusing to look away. He needs to see that I’m not intimidated. That I’ve met men like him before.

That I’ve survived them.

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing,” I say, voice cool, “but I’m not interested.”

“Game?” he echoes, voice low and rich. “You really think I bought hospital shares—millions of dollars’ worth—just to play a game with you?”

I hesitate.

“I mean… yes?”

“You can’t be that daft, Robyn.”

My eyes narrow. “Then what is this? What do you want from me? Sex?”

His head tilts slightly. “Sex? Is that what you want?”

I let out a dry, sharp laugh. “Oh my God. You’re so corny.”

Dominique doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink. His hands are still buried in his pockets, like this is just a casual walk in the park and not a full-on verbal sparring match.

“You can’t twist my words,” I say, pointing at him. “Don’t try to plant shit in my head. It’s manipulative. It’s also shitty.”

He hums like he’s bored. “Mmm.”

“And no, I don’t want sex—especially not from you.”

One of his eyebrows arches slowly. The smirk returns, cockier than ever.

“I wouldn’t make promises I can’t keep if I were you,” he says, taking his time with every word like he wants to hear how they land.

“You know what? Let’s see about that,” I shoot back. “Just because you’re a billionaire doesn’t mean you’ll always get what you want.”

He leans in slightly, voice calm and taunting. “And what is it you think I want, Robyn?”

He drags his eyes down my body, slow and heated.

“You?”

Wow.

What an arrogant prick.

I’m not stupid.

I see the way he looks at me—like he’s starving. Like he’s barely keeping it together.

I don’t know what his endgame is or what he thinks he’ll get out of this twisted little power dance, but he’s not going to win. Not this time. If he’s used to getting his way with everything and everyone, he needs to understand something very clearly:

I’m not that girl.

He’s going to have to try a lot harder.

I peel myself off the car and uncross my arms, reaching out to grip the lapel of his suit.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.

But I feel it—how solid he is beneath the expensive fabric. The muscle. The heat. He’s built like a fucking god, and he knows it. He’s trying so hard to stay neutral, to wear that mask of disinterest.

But I can feel it in him. That tension. That strain.

And I know what I look like.

I know the power I carry.

I pull him in slowly, and he lets me.

Even in heels, I still have to lean up on my toes to reach him, my mouth inches from his ear.

“I see the way you look at me,” I whisper, my voice soft, my breath warm against his skin. “I can smell the hunger from here, Dominique Voss.”

His name slides off my tongue like a dare.

“I know you want to fuck me—desperately, might I add. But let’s get one thing straight…”

I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“I’m not every other girl. You want me? You’re gonna have to work for it. Hard.” My voice stays steady. “I don’t know what game you’re playing—but we both know you’re playing it. And you’re not going to win. Not this time.”

For a beat, he just stares at me.

Then it happens.

A slow, deliberate smirk spreads across his face—one that makes my stomach twist in the worst, most frustrating way.

He grabs my wrist—not hard, not aggressive—and lowers my hand from his chest.

His touch is strong, masculine, maddening. I hate that he feels this good.

I hate that he smells like sex and smoke and woodsy sin.

I hate that his voice is low and deep and impossible to ignore.

I hate him.

And I don’t even know him.

How can one man rev me up this badly?

“I see you’ve done your research,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth. “But if you should know one thing, sweetheart…”

He steps in. Closer.

Too close.

We’re breathing the same air now. My chest brushes the fabric of his suit with every breath. His hand rises, brushing a few loose strands of hair behind my ear, slow and intimate.

“…it’s that I don’t have the luxury of time to play games. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

His voice drops even lower—like smoke curling between us.

“And if I wanted to fuck you like you seem so sure I do…” He leans in, eyes locked on mine. “I don’t think you have it in you to resist.”

He lets that settle.

“Not for long, anyway.”

My breath catches.

He’s not even touching me—and I feel like I’m on fire.

He’s pushing.

Testing.

Seeing how far he can go before I break.

What kind of man is he?

My brows lift at the arrogance dripping from his voice. But damn it—why is that so hot?

“That’s a lot of confidence, Mr. Voss,” I say, my tone tight.

“It’s not confidence,” he replies, his smirk never wavering. “It’s called fact.”

“Fact?” I echo, stepping closer again. “You mean the fact that you want to pin me against your wall and fuck me senseless?”

Something flashes in his eyes.

Just for a second.

Desire. Pure and unfiltered.

And finally—he slips.

Even for a moment.

I chuckle, low and sharp. “Keep dreaming, you disgusting asshole. I don’t like assholes—especially the rich ones. And for the record, I don’t owe you shit. If you hadn’t fixed your precious car, I would’ve handled it—even though I… yeah, fled the crime scene.”

There’s a long, loaded silence between us.

Neither of us breaks it. We just stand there, locked in this power struggle.

Finally, Dominique looks down at his lapel, brushes it once like he’s flicking away the whole conversation, then lifts his gaze back to mine.

“It was nice talking to you, Ms. Denver.”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t walk away.

He just lingers, like he’s waiting for something.

“There you are. I’ve been looking—”

Both our heads turn at the same time.

Monique stands near the entrance, frozen in place, wide-eyed as she takes in the scene before her. Her gaze jumps between me and Dominique, probably calculating every ounce of tension in the air.

Dominique turns back to me, steps in one last time, and leans in close—just enough to make my pulse trip.

“Playing hard to get doesn’t suit you, Robyn,” he whispers, his breath grazing my skin. “And sooner or later, you’re going to give in.”

His voice dips lower. More intimate.

“And a little tip?” He smirks again, the bastard. “You should wear red more often. It brings out your eyes.”

Then he pulls back—smooth, unbothered—and walks off like he didn’t just leave a fucking storm in his wake. He gives Monique a curt nod as he passes her and disappears behind the glass doors, leaving only the echo of his cologne and that maddening confidence behind.

I look up at the sky, jaw tight, chest rising and falling. I wrap my arms around myself and exhale hard through my nose.

Well, talk about a complicated man.

Monique rushes toward me, heels clacking against the pavement. “What the fuck was that?”

I don’t answer.

She stops in front of me, eyes gleaming, lips curved into a full-on grin. “Okay, first of all, the sexual tension? Robyn. That wasn’t just a little heat. That was, like, raging fire pit with gasoline dumped on top.”

I arch a brow at her. “You done? That was nothing.”

“That was not nothing. What did he whisper? Come on.”

“I’m tired,” I mutter, shifting on my heels. “Let’s go home. My feet are killing me.”

Monique narrows her eyes at me like she’s trying to x-ray through my skull. “Fine. We’ll go. But just so you know, you’re so telling me everything the minute we get home.”

I say nothing.

“Robyn.”

“Right,” I sigh.

But I’m already tuning her out.

Because no matter how hard I try to play it off—

That man just left a mark.

And I hate that part of me wants to see what he does next.