I brush her hair back.“I know enough.I know what you taste like.How your body fits mine.How your scent drives me insane.That’s more truth than a thousand conversations.”
It’s the same line I used in my office, but it isn’t any less true than it was back then.She’s quiet as she works through what we’ve said and done this afternoon.
“You can fight me,” I whisper, “but I’ll still take care of you.Whether you’re under my roof or not.You’re not alone anymore.”
Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears.But she nods and stays with me, in bed.And I know I’ve won ...for now.
Chapter Seven
The Dragon’s Den
Zahara
I’ve never been in a car this silent.
It glides over the asphalt like it’s barely touching the road, a shadow on wheels—sleek, black, and impossibly smooth.The seats are leather so soft it feels like I’m sitting on an actual cloud, and the cabin smells like him.Expensive, dangerous, and all-consuming.
Acheron doesn’t speak as the car ascends the hills above the city, winding higher and higher, away from the noise and chaos.I catch glimpses of gated estates behind iron fences, their driveways longer than city blocks, their windows glowing like fireflies in the night.
But nothing prepares me for his home.
We drive through a massive wrought-iron gate guarded by stone dragons.They are realistic and super detailed to the point they almost appear alive.The gravel drive curves around a fountain lit from beneath by golden lights.Water sprays upward in graceful arcs, reflecting off the obsidian walls of a house that looks more like a fortress than a residence.
No, this is definitely not a house.It’s a fucking palace.
The structure towers in front of us, all sharp edges and glass, black stone and steel.Every window glows softly with ambient lighting.Every corner whispers of wealth and power and centuries of legacy.It looks ancient and futuristic all at once.
When the car stops, a man in a crisp charcoal suit opens the door without being asked.
“Miss Zahara.”He bows slightly.“Welcome.”
I blink.“Thanks ...I think.”
Acheron steps out behind me, his hand brushing the small of my back.Possessive and steadying.His touch is a brand, searing through the fabric of my coat.
He guides me up the steps into a grand foyer where chandeliers glitter like suspended galaxies and the marble floor reflects the ceiling’s constellation map.A massive staircase curves upward like the spine of some ancient beast, the banister inlaid with scales of something dark and shimmery.
