9. Her Mark in the Ashes

Aaron

The taste of her lips still lingers.

I shouldn’t be thinking about it, but I am. It’s ridiculous how one kiss can scramble my mind like this, undo years of discipline, of building walls so thick no one could ever break them down. Yet here I am, pacing my study late into the night, unable to concentrate on the files scattered across my desk.

Her face keeps flashing before me—her startled eyes, the way her breath hitched against me, and the trembling way she leaned into the kiss as though torn between fear and desire. For years, I’ve been untouched, uninterested, keeping women at arm’s length because I’ve never trusted anyone enough to let them close. Work was easier. Work was safe.

But she isn’t safe.

She’s my employee. She’s… complicated. Every time I look at her, I see layers I can’t read, secrets that she tries to hide behind her composed smile. And tonight, when she flinched as though the shadows themselves might consume her, I knew it—she’s in trouble. She’s hiding something big.

And damn me, I want to know what it is.

Not just because I hate mysteries, but because it’s her. Because I can’t get her out of my head. Because when I kissed her, I felt more alive than I have in years, and now the hunger won’t stop.

The next morning, I arrive at the office sharper than usual, telling myself I’ll bury this distraction in work. Wyatt has no new leads to give me, no updates on the case, and my patience is running thin. I want answers. I want control back.

But the moment I step into the building, I see her.

She’s behind her desk, head bent, typing something quickly on her computer. She doesn’t look up when I pass. She doesn’t greet me. Normally, she does. Normally, she acknowledges me with those careful eyes that try not to give away too much.

Today, she avoids me like I’m a fire she can’t afford to touch.

I watch her. She feels my gaze—she must—but instead of meeting it, she grabs a file and pretends to be occupied. When I step closer, she excuses herself to make a call. When I pass by again, she disappears into the archive room.

She’s running from me. And it’s infuriating.

I try to focus on the numbers, the contracts, the endless signatures required of me. But each time I glance at the monitor in my office that displays the camera feeds, I find myself drawn to the one showing her floor. She moves like a shadow, flitting past me as though I’m poison.

The kiss. She’s avoiding it. Avoiding me.

Fine. If she won’t come to me, I’ll make her.

By late afternoon, I’ve had enough. I summon her to my office. My voice is sharp when I tell my assistant to call her in, sharper than it should be. She doesn’t come.

Minutes drag. Five. Seven. Nine.

By the tenth, I know exactly where she is. I’ve been watching the cameras. She’s standing outside my office door, frozen, her hand hovering near the handle but never pressing it down. She looks like she’s fighting herself, whispering something under her breath.

Patience is not my virtue.

I rise, walk across the office, and yank the door open. She jumps back like she’s been caught doing something forbidden, her wide eyes meeting mine with a guilty spark.

“Planning to stand there all day?” I ask, leaning casually against the doorframe. She swallows hard and shakes her head. “I—no. I was just… I was about to come in.”

“Sure you were.” I step back, gesturing her inside. “Come on.”

She hesitates again, then forces herself through the doorway. I shut the door behind her, and the click echoes too loudly in the silence between us.

“Sit,” I tell her. She sits on the edge of the chair opposite me, posture stiff, eyes fixed on her hands. “What’s going on in that tiny head of yours?” I ask, leaning forward.

Her shoulders stiffen. “It’s personal.”

I almost laugh at the bluntness, though nothing about this is amusing. “Everything about you seems personal, Ms Lena. But I don’t like being lied to. You’re disturbed. I can see it. And I know you’re being followed.”

Her head snaps up, panic flashing in her eyes before she masks it again. “I’m not being followed.” Good. She is defensive. It means that she is clearly lying.

“You think I don’t notice things?” I push, my tone hardening. “I notice everything. You look over your shoulder too often. You flinch at shadows. Last night, you froze like someone was watching. And I’m telling you—I want to help you.”

Her lips press together, stubborn, defiant. “There’s nothing to help with. You’re imagining things.”

The denial grates on me. The way she pushes me away, even when I can see her breaking. I rise from my chair, step around the desk, and stop in front of her. She looks up at me, her throat working as I close the distance.

“Are you going to deny everything, then?” I murmur. “Even the fact that you kissed me back?”

Her cheeks flare crimson, her breath catching. She looks away quickly, twisting her hands together. That’s all the answer I need.

I almost push further, but she bolts up, muttering something about needing to get back to work. She rushes out before I can stop her, leaving the faint trace of her perfume lingering in the air, mocking me.

The rest of the day drags.

I tell myself to let it go, but my eyes find her again as the office thins out, as people gather their things to leave. And when I catch sight of her downstairs near the parking lot, standing beside one of the company cars with a driver crouched by the tire, my instincts flare.

I walk over, my footsteps echoing against the concrete. The driver straightens up and tells her the car’s unsafe to drive tonight.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

The driver explains about the damage, something about the tires being tampered with. I don’t like the sound of it. At all. Yet she stands there with a hope lingering in her eyes which she is deliberately avoiding from me. I know what's going on in her mind.

“I’ll drop you home,” I say immediately.

She shakes her head quickly. “No. I’ll manage—”

I cut her off, not in the mood for her protests. “You’re not managing anything. Come on.”

I take her hand before she can argue and lead her toward my car. She stiffens at the contact but doesn’t pull away, and that tiny concession fuels something reckless in me.

My Rolls-Royce is waiting. Sleek. Black. Untouchable. I open the door for her, and she slides in reluctantly. The silence is thick as I drive. She stares out the window, avoiding me. I let it stretch until it’s unbearable, then break it.

“Dinner? Before I take you home.” I ask, and my eyes fall onto her lap as she clutches her hand tightly onto the hem of her dress as if she is holding back something. Her mysterious behaviour is what keeps me intrigued, and I know this is something personal to her. But fuck. I can’t just pretend that I am not interested in knowing.

“No, thank you,” she replies softly, still not looking at me. The refusal stings more than it should. I grip the wheel tighter, jaw clenching.

Fine. She doesn’t want to talk? I won’t force her. But she can’t keep running forever.

When I finally pull up in front of her building, she exhales, almost in relief. I turn my head, studying her profile in the glow of the streetlight. She’s beautiful, even in her stubborn silence.

“See you tomorrow,” She murmurs a quick thank-you, slips out, and disappears behind her door without a backward glance.

I linger for a moment, staring after her, fighting the urge to go after her and demand answers. But before I can move, my phone vibrates.

It's Wyatt.

I answer. “What is it?” His voice is urgent, clipped. “Mr King, one of the warehouses—it’s under fire.”

My blood goes cold.

The night shifts again, from desire to danger, and I realize I can’t afford to let my guard down anymore—not with her, not with the shadows watching her, not with whoever’s bold enough to come after me now.

And yet, even as I speed toward the flames, her face doesn’t leave my mind.