22

EZRA

She smells like trouble.

Sweet, heady, intoxicating trouble.

I stand by the doorway, taking her in before I lean against the doorframe, fighting the urge to clench my fists. Her scent curls around me, warm skin, soft perfume, the quick, frantic beat of her heart, and it's a goddamn punch to my control.

Every second she stands there, clutching that dress to her chest like some forbidden prize, I lose a little more of the leash I keep around myself.

"The dress," she says, voice trembling slightly. "I can't… it won't… tie."

I glance down. Her fingers are tangled awkwardly at her lower back, struggling to reach the delicate ties. The dress dips low, exposing the smooth line of her spine, the gentle curve of her waist, the soft swell of her ass beneath the silk.

My jaw tightens.

I should tell her to go back to the living room. Or get out of the penthouse.

Except I won't.

I didn't even tell her to use my room. And that's what I was supposed to say.

But I didn’t want her scent soaking into the place I have to sleep.

Because deep down, I knew.

This woman isn’t safe.

Not for me.

Not for anyone.

And yet here she is, standing half-naked in my doorway, asking for my help like it’s nothing.

Like it’s not dragging claws across every inch of my self-restraint.

I shift, the loose fabric of my slacks suddenly feeling far too tight.

I tell myself it’s just the bloodlust.

It’s always been the bloodlust.

But the way her curves fill out that dress, the way her lips part nervously, the way her bare neck is exposed due to her cropped hair.

It’s not just blood I'm craving.

It's her.

The real, messy, breakable parts of her.

The soft gasp she would make if I pressed her against the door and claimed that sweet mouth.

The way her body would arch into me if I let my hands roam where they ache to.

The taste of her skin, flushed with heat and lust.

Fuck. I need to call Malik.

I drag in a ragged breath through my teeth, forcing the beast back into its cage.

Not now.

Not yet.

"Turn around," I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.

She blinks up at me, startled, but obeys. Like a good girl. Slowly, carefully, she turns, exposing the bare expanse of her back once again.

I stare for a second longer than I should.

Perfect. She’s perfect.

My fingers move on instinct, brushing her neck, exposing the long, delicate line of her neck. Her shoulder is lined with goosebumps.

Stupid, a dark part of me growls. Stupid to leave yourself exposed like this around me.

If she turns, she'll see my exposed fang and glowing red eyes.

Fuck.

The ties are flimsy, thin as a thread. I could snap them in half without trying.

Instead, I gather them carefully, my knuckles grazing her warm skin as I work. Her body shudders at the contact, so slight most men wouldn't notice.

But I'm not most men.

I'm not a man at all.

I close the ties, securing them with a neat, firm knot at the small of her back. Every second feels like a test I barely pass.

And it takes every ounce of my self control.

"Done," I murmur, stepping back fast. Too fast.

Before I do something I'll regret.

Before I remind myself that she’s not just prey to be hunted.

Not just a body to claim.

She's... more.

And some asshole threw her away like she was nothing.

I curl my hands into fists at my sides, fighting the sudden urge to destroy something. Someone.

Fucking idiot.

Doesn't deserve her.

Doesn’t even deserve to remember her or be remembered by her.

She turns around, clutching the front of the dress like she’s expecting me to laugh or criticize.

I don’t.

I can’t.

Because all I can think is how goddamn lucky he was to have her... and how monumentally stupid he was to lose her.

And how dangerous it is that I’m even thinking that way at all.

I say nothing as I step back inside. I slam the door shut and turn the lock with a hard click.

Leaning my back against the door, I drag a hand down my face, breathing her lingering scent in.

It winds its way into my bloodstream like a drug. My slacks are still painfully tight, my body straining for something it has no right wanting.

I don't touch myself.

It would be surrendering to her.

To the need.

To the madness.

And I'm still in control.

Barely.

I force myself to get dressed. Mechanical movements, each one done with precision, because if I stop and think about her in that dress, about her skin beneath my hands—

No.

I button the cuffs, adjust the collar. My cock throbs angrily against the confines of my slacks, but I ignore it. Ignore the way my skin still burns from touching her.

Let it hurt.

Let it remind me that monsters like me don't submit to their needs.

I wait. Five minutes. Maybe ten. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough to convince myself I’m still the one holding the leash.

Then I step out of the room.

She’s in the living area, perched on the edge of the couch.

Minimal makeup—just a hint of color on her lips, a soft glow to her skin.

Beautiful. Effortless.

And smiling at her phone.

Something dark flares inside me.

My jaw locks tight.

"Who is that?" I hear myself say, voice low and sharp.

She looks up, startled.

Her lips part, her thumb hovering over the screen like I just caught her doing something wrong.

For a second, she says nothing.

Then, too casually, she mumbles, "It's Lyra. A new friend and none of your business."

None of my business.

The words dig under my skin.

I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms, but my face stays calm. 

"Let's go," I say, voice clipped.

I don’t wait for her to argue. I turn and lead the way to the door, to the elevator, hearing the soft patter of her heels as she scrambles to follow.

Inside the elevator, I punch the code for the underground parking garage.

The doors slide close.

Silence stretches thick between us but I don't look at her.

I can't.

When the doors finally open, we step out into the cool underground air.

The sleek black car is already waiting, engines humming low.

Two drivers. Three bodyguards.

I don't need them.

Not really.

But appearances must be kept.

Humans expect the rich and powerful to have guards.

They expect danger to lurk somewhere out of sight.

If only they knew the real danger was standing right beside her.

And it’s not the men outside the car.

It’s me.

I open the door for her, forcing myself not to touch her lower back like I want to.

Forcing myself not to lean in and breathe her in deeper.

She slides inside gracefully, flashing me a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

Good.

Let her stay wary of me.

Because tonight, I don't know if I'll be able to protect her from the monster whispering in my ear.

Especially if she keeps smiling at her phone like that.

Especially if she keeps looking so fucking perfect.