Taming Mr. Wolfe

(Zara’s POV)

If anyone told me I’d be scrubbing marble floors in a billionaire’s penthouse before my lecture, I’d have told them to go choke on their silver spoon.

But here I am.

Bucket in hand.

Wearing a maid uniform that hugs my curves too tight to be professional.

Standing outside Penthouse 31A—better known on campus as The Den. Where girls go in giggling and come out ruined.

The rumors swirl louder than the elevator music still playing in my ears.

They say Damien Wolfe lives here.

Billionaire heir. Arrogant playboy. Wrecker of maids.

I knock once. No answer.

I knock again. Still nothing.

Mrs. Donovan gave me the code. Scribbled it like it was no big deal. Like entering his space wasn’t the same as stepping into the lion’s cage.

I hesitate. Something in my gut twists.

But rent is due, I’m behind on groceries, and my scholarship doesn’t cover ramen noodles, let alone dignity.

So I punch in the code.

Beep.

The door slides open with a hiss, revealing a hallway that looks like it belongs in a villain’s lair—black marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, everything soaked in wealth and silence.

I step inside like I’m walking into a trap.

“Hello?” I call softly. No answer.

Good.

Maybe I can clean and get out before—

A sound cuts through the stillness. Low. Guttural. Male.

A moan.

My heart stops. I freeze mid-step.

Another moan, followed by a breathy giggle.

Oh no.

My feet move before my brain tells them to. Toward the sound. Toward the cracked bedroom door at the end of the hall.

Curiosity is a stupid, dangerous thing.

Through the narrow gap, I catch a glimpse of bare skin. Movement. A man’s voice.

“Fuck, girl… That mouth should be illegal.”

I jerk back like I’ve been slapped. My throat dries. That voice—dark and lazy, thick with arrogance and sin—is unmistakable.

Damien Wolfe.

And I just walked in on him getting head.

I spin around, heart jackhammering in my chest. I nearly trip over the mop bucket and bolt toward the kitchen. Scrubbing anything in sight. Tiles. Counters. My shame.

Footsteps follow me.

I don’t turn.

But I feel him.

The heat of his gaze slices down my spine before he even speaks.

“New maid?”

His voice is smooth, slow. Like molasses and poison.

I straighten, clutching the cleaning rag like it might save me. Then I turn.

And yeah.

It’s him.

Dripping with sweat. Tattoos curling across a chest carved like sin. Grey eyes that pin me in place.

He’s wearing nothing but a towel and a smirk.

“You’re not the usual type they send,” he murmurs, eyes skating over me like he’s already undressing me.

I lift my chin. “I’m not a type. I’m here to clean.”

His smile deepens. “What’s your name?”

“Zara Blake.”

“Zara.” He says it like it’s something he plans to taste later. “Pretty name. How old are you, Zara?”

“Old enough to know when I’m being hunted.”

That gets a low chuckle from him.

Damn it. His laugh is hot.

“I like you.” He steps closer. “You’ve got fire.”

“I’m not here to be liked.”

“No?” He’s too close now. The scent of him—something dark and expensive—wraps around me like a noose. “What if I asked you to clean my room next?”

“Depends. Do I clean it alone or with you watching?”

His smirk twitches.

“Bold,” he murmurs. “But be careful. Girls who play with wolves don’t always make it out whole.”

I meet his gaze dead-on.

“Good. I’m already broken.”

I grab my mop and turn away before he can see the heat rushing to my cheeks.

His footsteps retreat. A door closes somewhere behind me.

I breathe.

Then I lean against the wall, heart still racing.

So that’s Damien Wolfe.

And I just survived Round One.

Barely.

But as I wring out the mop, I feel it—his presence still lingering. That look in his eyes. Like I’m not just a maid. I’m a game.

And he always plays to win.

Suddenly, the hallway goes quiet.

Too quiet.

I glance up.

And freeze.

Standing at the edge of the kitchen is her—a tall, leggy brunette wrapped in one of Damien’s silk shirts. Lipstick smeared. Satisfaction all over her face.

She eyes me like I’m gum stuck under her heel.

Then, with a smug smile, she purrs, “Careful, sweetie. He only keeps us around for a night.”

She disappears down the hall before I can respond.

And I realize—

I’ve just stepped into something much darker than a cleaning job.

And I might not walk out the same.