LOGINThe interior of the SUV was a stark contrast to the filth of the alleyway. It smelled of expensive leather, gun oil, and the lingering scent of Damonās smoke. Outside the armored glass, the city blurred into streaks of neon, but inside, the silence was heavy enough to choke on.Damon sat beside me, his long legs stretched out, seemingly unaffected by the fact that he had just put a bullet through a manās hand. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the back of the driverās head, his expression unreadable."Thank you," I whispered, my voice still trembling. My fingers were curled into the fabric of the seat so tightly my knuckles were white. "If you hadn't shown up⦠I donāt even want to think about where Iād be right now."Damon finally turned his head. The shadows played across the sharp angles of his face, making him look more like a god than a man. He reached out, his hand tracing the line of my jaw in a way it made me almost go crazy. It wasn't a caress; it was a check of his n
Damon stepped fully into the flickering, jaundiced light of the streetlamp, and for a heartbeat, the world stopped spinning.He looked nothing like the "Executive Vice President" I had seen in the polished hallways of Hart Global. The tailored Italian wool was gone, replaced by a heavy leather jacket that hung open to reveal a glimpse of his inked chestāa chaotic map of black ink that seemed to pulse under the dim light. He looked dreadful. He looked like a god of wreckage who had just climbed out of a cage heād been trapped in all day.He dragged on a cigarette, the cherry-red tip glowing like a predatory eye in the dark. I had never seen him like this. The cold corporate mask hadn't just slipped; it had been incinerated, replaced by the raw, terrifying aura of a man who thrived in the dirt."Leave her alone," he said. His voice wasnāt a shout. It was a low, jagged vibration that felt like a blade being drawn across a whetstone.Jace let out a sharp, forced laugh, though I could feel
The mahogany boardroom table felt like a runway for an execution, and I was the only one without a blindfold.We had been trapped in this airless room for four hours. I sat in a stiff chair behind Lucien, my hand cramping into a permanent claw as I scribbled notes that felt less like business minutes and more like a record of a massacre.Lucien didnāt lead; he hunted. Every time a director dared to breathe, he cut them down with a single, icy look. He didn't want their respect; he wanted to remind them who owned the air they breathed. By the time the last director scurried outālooking like they were escaping a burning buildingāthe sun had long since surrendered. The floor-to-ceiling windows now looked out over a city draped in bruised purples and heartless neon.I rubbed my sore wrist, my brain feeling like a tangled mess. Lucien stood up, adjusting his silver cufflinks with a terrifying calm, as if he hadn't dismantled his whole board. He didn't look tired. He looked fed."Iām stayin
As we stepped out of the private elevator onto the executive floor of Hart Global, the air didn't just turn cold; it pressurized. Lucien didnāt slow down. He moved through the office like a king walking through a conquered territory. Every head snapped up. Every conversation died. I felt the weight of a dozen gazes, some curious, some hungry, some sharp with envy, but before I could even blink, Lucien had grabbed me by the small of my back and was marching me towards the office right next to his. "Sit," he commanded, gesturing to a desk piled with thick folders. "Summarize these merger histories. All of them. By lunch." "This would take a legal team a week," I said, staring at the mountain of paper. "Then youād better start reading, Scarlett. And stay inside. I donāt want you socializing with the staff. They have work to do, and youāre a distraction they canāt afford." I scoffed at his arrogance. He disappeared into his own office, leaving me trapped in a high-end fishbowl.
I woke up with the kind of headache that felt like a tiny sledgehammer was rhythmicly pounding against the inside of my skull. For a fleeting, blissful second, I forgot where I was. Then, the scent of expensive linen and the oppressive silence of the room hit me. The Hart penthouse. The lionās den. I bolted upright, checking the clock on the bedside table. 7:35 AM. "Shit," I hissed, scrambling out of the covers. Lucien had been crystal clear about his deadlines. I dove into the shower, the hot water doing little to wash away the memory of Damonās gun pressed against my temple or the way Kaiās blue eyes looked at me like I was a virus in his clean code. I didn't have time for a full transformation. I threw on the only things I had left in my suitcaseāa pair of faded jeans and a slightly oversized hoodie. It was a stark contrast to the black thrift-store gown Iād worn to the boardroom battle, but it was me. I brushed my hair with trembling fingers, styling it clumsily as I sprin
As I stepped in, someone moved with a speed that defied physics. Before I could even gasp, I was slammed back. My spine hit the wall with a jarring thud, and the cold, unmistakable press of metal was shoved against my temple. "What are you doing here? Who sent you? Who are you working for?" The voice was a low, lethal growl that vibrated through my very bones. I went still. This wasn't the first time I'd looked down the barrel of a weapon; surviving the Velvet Eclipse and Jaceās erratic temper had made near-death experiences feel like an old, twisted habit. But something was different this time. It wasn't just the gun. It was the sheer, overwhelming heat of the man pinning me. Even in the shadows, I could see the flexed muscles of his chest, a dark map of ink covering his skin. My heart wasn't racing from fearāit was racing because, God help me, I was getting wet. Being this close to him, smelling the whiskey and leather on his breath, felt like standing too close to a wildfire.







