Chapter 4: The First Rule of Power

The next morning, I woke up with swollen lips, sore breath, and the taste of his kiss still burning on my tongue.

I touched my mouth gently, remembering how he held me, kissed me, then walked away silently.

He didn’t say “stay,” didn’t say “go,” didn’t say anything—just left me in the silence we created with our fire.

I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a woman I didn’t recognize, and for once, I liked her.

She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t soft. She had tasted power and wanted more—more of him, more of herself.

I dressed in black again, like armor, like warning, like a promise that I wouldn’t be touched unless I allowed it.

The office felt colder today, or maybe it was just me, pretending my skin wasn’t still burning under his fingerprints.

He didn’t speak when I entered. He just nodded once, eyes dark, jaw tight, hands clenched like he hadn’t slept at all.

We worked in silence for hours, the kind that crackled with tension, every paper shuffle loud like thunder between two storms.

When noon came, he finally spoke. “We have a lunch meeting. You’ll come. You’ll speak only when spoken to. Understood?”

“Yes,” I said calmly, pretending his voice didn’t make my chest feel tight and my thighs press together without permission.

He looked at me sharply, like he could hear my thoughts, like he wanted to punish me for having them.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said slowly. “I’m trying to focus, and you make that nearly impossible today.”

“Then stop looking,” I whispered, not smiling, not blinking, not caring that my heart felt like a drum inside a cage.

His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something filthy, but instead, he stood up and grabbed his coat silently.

---

The restaurant was glass and silver, cold elegance, full of rich people pretending they had never cried or begged for anything.

I sat beside Lucas, not across, and the other men at the table watched me like I was expensive forbidden fruit.

“Mr. Black,” one man said, smiling thinly, “is this your new assistant or just decoration to distract the competition?”

Lucas didn’t smile. “She’s here to listen. And she has better ears than most men you’ve paid to think for you.”

I didn’t speak. I just sipped my water, eyes calm, lips still, mind already memorizing names and secrets from every face.

The lunch went long, full of lies spoken sweetly, deals hidden behind wine glasses, and threats made through soft laughter.

Lucas was calm, dangerous, patient, and when he touched my wrist under the table, my whole body went still with heat.

“Breathe,” he whispered near my ear, the sound alone making my spine tremble. “You’re too tense. Makes them smell your power.”

I nodded once, trying not to lean into his voice, trying not to melt under the heat hiding in his tone.

He didn’t remove his hand. He kept it there—light, warm, powerful—and I knew he was claiming me without words or rings.

---

After lunch, in the car, the silence was heavy, but this time, it wasn’t cold—it was warm and full of tension.

“You didn’t speak once,” he said quietly, looking out the window. “That was smart. Power listens more than it talks.”

I nodded, hands folded tightly in my lap. “That’s rule number one, isn’t it? Power never explains. It just exists.”

He turned to me then, his eyes sharper than glass. “Where did you learn that?”

“From people who thought I was dumb,” I whispered. “They taught me every rule while trying to break me quietly.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood. “Pain makes good teachers. But power makes better students. You’ve been learning fast, Eva.”

“I want to be dangerous,” I said, my voice steady. “Not pretty. Not sweet. Not soft. Just sharp enough to cut.”

He reached for my hand again, fingers rough but gentle, like he was holding a weapon instead of a woman.

“You already are,” he said, eyes never leaving mine. “You just don’t know how deep you can slice—yet.”

---

Back in the office, the air was thicker, the lights dimmer, like the walls were watching us and waiting for something.

I handed him the files, and he brushed my fingers lightly, and again, the fire returned like it never left.

“I need you late tonight,” he said, voice rough. “There’s more work. Important things. And I don’t trust anyone else.”

I nodded, throat dry. “I’ll stay. I wasn’t planning to go home anyway.”

He raised a brow. “No home to return to?”

“Not one that feels like home,” I whispered. “Just walls filled with memories I’d rather set on fire.”

He looked at me quietly, then said, “Then stay here. Use the guest room if you want. You’ll be safe.”

I wanted to ask why. Why offer me shelter? Why offer protection when he owed me nothing but a paycheck?

But I didn’t ask. I nodded once. “Thank you.”

---

Midnight came, and I was still at my desk, still working, still pretending I didn’t hear him pacing behind closed doors.

The hallway was quiet when I walked toward his office, holding the final report, my feet soft on the marble floor.

His door was slightly open, the light spilling out like gold, and I knocked once before stepping into his space.

He stood by the window, shirt half unbuttoned, hair messy, a glass in hand, looking like temptation wrapped in broken shadows.

“I didn’t ask you to come in,” he said, voice low.

“I know,” I replied. “But I finished the report. And I couldn’t sleep with your voice echoing in my head.”

He turned slowly, eyes dragging down my body, stopping at my lips, then my chest, then my legs, like claiming pieces.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “Not when I want things I shouldn’t want. Not when you’re wearing that look.”

“What look?” I asked, stepping closer.

“The look that says you want me to kiss you again. Hard. Slow. Until you forget who you even are.”

I swallowed hard. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want to forget everything for a night.”

He walked toward me, step by step, like a wolf finally tired of watching, finally ready to take.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said.

“Good,” I whispered. “I’m tired of playing safe.”

He kissed me again, this time harder, like he was punishing both of us for waiting too long to explode.

My hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, his mouth stealing my breath, his touch waking every nerve I buried.

He lifted me onto his desk, papers flying, his body pressed between my legs, heat rolling between us like fire.

His mouth moved to my neck, slow, biting, and I gasped, holding his face, needing more, needing him, needing this.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice shaking.

“No,” I breathed. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”