Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The ride back to the penthouse was a suffocating blur of flashing city lights and deafening silence. I sat pressed against the farthest door of the Maybach, my knees pulled tightly together, shivering despite the heavy cashmere coat Julian had thrown over my shoulders.

Beneath the expensive wool, my emerald silk gown felt like a burial shroud.

I couldn't stop staring at his hands.

He had wiped the blood off with a linen handkerchief before we left the Plaza, but in the dim, shifting shadows of the car, my mind kept painting the rust-colored stains back into the creases of his knuckles. Those hands had just taken a life. Easily. Effortlessly. Without a single fraction of a second's hesitation.

He was sitting on the opposite side of the leather bench, entirely still, his posture relaxed. He was staring out the window at the passing city, looking every inch the untouched, bored billionaire heading home from a dull charity event. It was sickening. The duality of the man sitting next to me was enough to make my stomach violently pitch.

When the Maybach descended into the private underground garage, the engine cut off with a heavy finality. Matteo opened the door, his eyes completely dead, not even glancing at me as I climbed out on shaking legs.

We rode the private elevator up in absolute silence. I held my breath the entire way, watching the digital floor indicator climb higher and higher. Sixty-three. Sixty-four. Sixty-five.

The doors hissed open, depositing us directly into the freezing, monochromatic expanse of the penthouse. The paralysis that had gripped my lungs for the last half hour finally snapped. Survival instinct—sharp, blinding, and entirely desperate—kicked in.

Julian stepped out first, dropping his keys onto a marble console and turning his back to me to shed his suit jacket.

I didn't think. I just reacted.

I threw the heavy cashmere coat to the marble floor, bolted past him, and slammed my hand flat against the elevator control panel. I mashed the lobby button, a frantic, pathetic sob tearing from my throat. The heavy steel doors started to glide shut. Freedom. The gap narrowed to six inches, then four, then two—

A massive hand shot through the gap.

The thick metal doors shuddered and let out a horrible, grinding screech as Julian forced them apart with sheer, terrifying brute strength. He wedged his shoulder into the opening, prying the doors wide, his face a mask of cold, unadulterated fury.

"No!" I screamed, stumbling backward until my spine hit the mirrored back wall of the elevator cab.

He stepped inside, completely filling the small space, the sheer size of him blocking the exit. He hit the emergency stop button. The elevator lurched violently, the overhead lights flickering once before settling into a dim, humming quiet. We were trapped in a steel box suspended above the city.

"Where exactly did you think you were going, Vivienne?" His voice was lethally soft, a dark vibration echoing off the glass and steel.

"Away from you!" I shrieked, the panic making me entirely reckless. I lunged forward, trying to shove past his chest, trying to claw my way to the door panel.

He didn't even flinch. He caught my wrists out of the air, spinning me around so fast the room blurred into streaks of light and shadow. In one fluid, violent motion, he slammed my back against the glass wall. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but I didn't stop fighting. I kicked blindly, my stiletto heel grazing his shin.

"Let me go! You're a murderer! You're a psychopath!" I thrashed wildly against his hold, tears of pure terror and blinding rage streaming hot down my face.

"Stop fighting me," he growled, stepping in closer, using his weight to pin my hips flush against the wall.

"Don't touch me! Don't put those hands on me!" I twisted my wrists, the friction burning my skin, but his grip was like iron manacles.

I managed to yank my right hand free. I didn't hesitate. I swung with everything I had.

My palm cracked sharply across his jaw.

The sound echoed like a gunshot in the small elevator.

Julian’s head whipped to the side. The air in the cab went completely dead. My chest heaved, my breath coming in jagged, terrified gasps. I had just struck a mafia boss. A man I had watched execute someone fifteen minutes ago. I braced myself for the blow that would end my life.

Slowly, agonizingly, he turned his face back to me.

The cold, dead restraint was gone. The pitch-black, feral darkness I had seen in that parlor room was back, and it was entirely focused on me.

He didn't hit me back. He didn't yell. Instead, he dropped my other wrist, both of his hands shooting up to grip the sides of my neck. He didn't squeeze, but the lethal threat was implicit. His thumbs rested directly over my frantic pulse. He stepped into my space until there wasn't a millimeter of air left between us.

"You want to run?" he breathed, his voice a jagged rasp that vibrated violently against my collarbone. "There is nowhere on this earth you can go that I won't find you. I own you."

"You own a piece of paper," I spat, trembling so violently my teeth chattered, refusing to drop my gaze. "You don't own me."

"Don't I?"

He shifted his weight, his thigh pressing insistently between my legs, pinning me completely against him.

A sharp gasp tore out of my mouth. The sheer, overwhelming heat of his body seeped through the thin silk of my dress. He was hard muscle and violent intent, and the terrifying realization hit me all at once like a physical blow: I wasn't just afraid of him.

My blood was boiling. The adrenaline pumping through my veins wasn't just fear anymore. It was a sick, twisting, electric heat. The scent of him—cedar, spice, and danger—was intoxicating. I hated him. I was terrified of him. But as his body pressed flush into mine, a humiliating, desperate ache sparked deep in my core.

He felt it. He felt the exact moment my body betrayed my mind.

A dark, predatory smirk curled the corner of his lips. His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin of my neck, tracing the frantic beating of my pulse, feeling my heart race for him.

"You're shaking, Vivienne," he murmured, leaning down until his lips were a breath away from mine. His eyes dropped to my mouth, dark and starving. "But you aren't trying to push me away anymore, are you?"

"I hate you," I whispered, my voice completely betraying me, sounding breathless and terribly weak.

"Good," he growled, closing the distance. "Use it."

His mouth crashed down on mine.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a violent invasion. It was brutal and punishing, tasting of fine scotch and raw, unchecked dominance. I should have bitten him. I should have screamed for help. Instead, my traitorous hands moved entirely on their own, sliding up his solid chest and twisting into the lapels of his suit, pulling him closer. The kiss was a war, our teeth clashing, our tongues fighting for control. I kissed him back with all the rage and terror burning inside me, opening my mouth and letting the darkness swallow me whole.

When he finally tore his mouth away, we were both panting, the silence of the elevator heavy with a completely different kind of tension. My lips were swollen, throbbing with the ghost of his violence.

Julian stared down at me, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with a possessive obsession that terrified me far more than his gun ever could.

He reached out, his thumb dragging roughly over my bruised bottom lip.

"You think you've seen the monster?" he whispered, his voice dripping with a dark, fatal promise. "We haven't even started playing yet. Welcome to the underworld, little bird."

He turned, hit the emergency switch to restart the elevator, and the doors slid open to the penthouse.

"Now," he ordered without looking back, his voice snapping back to pure ice. "Take your clothes off."