Put like that, it almost sounds rational.
The Velvet Ledger sold me easy money.
What they didn't mention? Damien Kozlov doesn't actually need a hostess.
He needs control.
A new toy. A warm body. Someone who'll say yes no matter what.
Breathe, Cassandra.
You walked in here.
You can walk out.
Preferably alive. Definitely paid.
Footsteps echo from the hallway.
Unhurried. Heavy. Male.
The kind of footsteps that don’t rush for anyone. The kind of footsteps that own the room before they even enter it.
My pulse kicks into my throat.
The door opens. Footsteps glide across plush rug.
Slow. Deliberate. Absolutely not friendly. They stop.
Right behind me.
And even though I can’t see him, I feel him. That awful, thrilling pressure.
The kind of presence that makes your skin hum and your dignity consider running for the hills.
The weight of his attention settles over me like a physical touch. I can feel him looking. Taking inventory. Deciding.
My skin prickles. My pulse stutters.
Every inch of me is awake, and none of it makes sense.
He moves. I track him by sound alone: the whisper of expensive fabric, the barely-there creak of leather shoes on hardwood. He's circling. Slow. Predatory.
His scent reaches me. Smoke. Leather. Something darker underneath.
It curls low in my belly.
Unwelcome.
Unmistakable.
And absolutely not helping.
He’s taking his time.
Looking. Deciding.
Like a man choosing which piece to move first on a board only he understands.
