All Chapters of Ruthless Desires (18+) : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Logan’s POV The barracks never felt this empty. Hell, even my condo feels too quiet lately—white walls, expensive leather couch, TV on mute. And me? I’m stretched across the bed with my phone glowing in my hand like it’s the only thing that matters. Her name lights my screen. Aria. She’s not like the others. Most women on these apps fire off selfies, or nudes if I push. Aria? She makes me chase. Smart comebacks. Teasing that cuts and strokes in the same breath. Half the time I’m grinning like an idiot, the other half I’m hard as fuck. Her latest message pops up: Aria: You talk like a man who gets in trouble often. Me: Baby, trouble is my middle name. Want proof? Aria: I’m afraid to ask. Me: I once let a woman drive my Harley. And she didn’t even have her license. Aria: Reckless. Me: Worth it. She wore a red dress and no panties. I smirk at the ceiling. She takes longer than usual to reply, and I imagine her biting that lush bottom lip she tries to play off as casual. Then

Aria’s POV And God, that look. Heat. Surprise. A flash of something darker that punches straight through me. I step in, heels clicking like I own the place, sliding between him and the mountain of muscle with all the calm in the world. My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears, but my voice comes out steady, cold. “This man is with me.” The bartender blinks. “Lady, he can’t pay.” “Put it on my tab.” I pull my black card from my clutch, hold it up just high enough for the whole room to see. The bouncer’s eyes narrow. The bartender’s widen. Whispers ripple through the bar like wildfire. I tilt my chin. “Or would you prefer I call your manager? Or the press? I’m sure they’d love a story about how your establishment manhandles decorated veterans.” The bouncer hesitates. Logan lets out a sharp laugh behind me, cocky, dangerous. “You hear that? She’s got you by the balls.” “Logan,” I hiss under my breath, but I feel him lean closer, his warmth searing my back. The bartender mutters someth

Aria’s POV Two nights later, my dining table looks like it belongs in a glossy magazine spread: crystal glasses lined in a row, white roses blooming from silver vases, candles dripping gold light over polished cutlery. It should feel elegant, but with Sophia and Elena here, it feels more like an ambush. Sophia twirls her wine glass like she’s auditioning for a scandal. “Honestly, Aria, you should just give up and hire yourself a boy toy. Men your age are either dead or boring.” Elena smirks, crossing her sequined legs with calculated grace. “Or married. Don’t forget that option. You, darling, need someone who can actually make you laugh. Or at least make you scream.” I arch a brow. “Thank you both for the unsolicited life assessment. I’ll keep that in mind when I start recruiting.” Sophia snorts into her wine. “Recruiting? You make it sound like you’re hiring staff, not getting laid.” “Some men are more work than they’re worth,” I retort, stabbing a piece of bruschetta a li

Logan’s POVIt’s been a month. Thirty days since I stepped foot in this city. Thirty days since Aria Moretti’s perfume wrapped around me in that restaurant and ruined every other woman in my head.I’ve rented a shitty apartment across town. The kind with peeling paint, a fridge that hums like it’s dying, and neighbors who yell through paper walls. I could afford better. Hell, I’ve lived better. But this place works—it keeps me close. Hotels are for visitors. I’m not visiting. I’m staying.Because I’m not done with her.Every morning, I drive past her office. Not to stalk—fuck, maybe it is stalking, but I don’t care. I sit in my truck, engine off, sunglasses on, watching those mirrored windows, wondering if she’s inside. Wondering if she’s thinking about me the way I think about her.And every night, she’s in my head. The tilt of her chin wh

Aria’s POV The conference room smells of polished wood and fresh ink, contracts spread across the table like weapons. My assistant had just finished briefing me when the doors fly open without a knock. “Aria.” Bianca. My late husband’s sister. Always storming in like she owns the place. I lean back in my chair, smoothing the silk at my wrist, refusing to give her the satisfaction of rattling me. “Bianca. I assume barging in means you didn’t bother with an appointment?” Her eyes are cold, sharp as glass. “Don’t play coy. My assistant sent you the proposal last week. And yet, I hear nothing. Not a signature. Not even a reply.” I keep my tone calm, clipped. “Because it was trash, Bianca. A siphon disguised as a project. You padded it with ‘consulting fees’ and duplicate contractors. Embezzlement by another name.” Her face flushes scarlet. “It’s my brother’s money. You think you get to dictate how it’s spent?” “No,” I say smoothly, folding my hands on the table. “I think I get to