I finish reading, the code of my world spinning smoothly under my hand, when a faint sound pricks the silence. Not footsteps. Softer: the hush of breath, the subtle scrape of fabric over hardwood, just outside the office. My body moves before my mind—gun in hand, silent on bare feet, every sense stretched taut.
The house is a cavern at this hour, shadows thrown long across marble and carpet. The old stairs don’t creak for me; I’ve memorized every flaw, every shift of the floorboards. I slip through the darkness, following the scent of nerves and something sweeter—fear, maybe, or hope. I see the living room at the end of the hall, just a sliver of movement at the far edge.
I wait, listening. Whoever is here is skilled. There’s no panic, no wasted motion. They move with the caution of someone who knows danger is close. Still, not cautious enough.When the moment comes, I pounce: a silent rush, one hand clamping down, the other pressing cold steel to the throat.
I catch the figure in a blur of motion, pinning them against the wall. My grip is hard, my voice colder. “Who sent you?”
There’s a gasp, muffled by my palm. Wide eyes stare up at me, caught between shock and outrage.
Sera.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Her hair is tousled, falling into her face, lips parted with a startled breath. In her free hand, clutched tight, is a packet of crackers, the cellophane crackling under my grip. She’s barefoot, shoulders squared, eyes flashing with a fury that burns away the fear.
She tries to speak; my hand drops from her mouth, gun lowering by a fraction. “I just went to the kitchen,” she spits, as if the excuse might earn her release.
I let the silence linger, letting her feel the press of steel against her skin, the heat of my body pinning hers to the wall. My smirk is slow, deliberate. “Breaking and entering? In my own house? How bold, little raven.”
She bristles, chin tipping up in defiance. “I was hungry. Or do you lock up the food too?”
I lean closer, letting my breath warm her ear. “Next time you want a midnight snack, ask.”
Her cheeks flush with anger, or maybe something else. She shoves at my chest, but I don’t move, savoring the tension stretched tight between us. The gun remains close, not quite touching, a threat and a promise.
“So you’re going to shoot me for stealing crackers?” she hisses, brows drawn tight.
My smirk deepens. “Depends.”
She glares, shoulders pressing hard against the wall, breath coming faster. “You’re insane. Do your guards know you threaten your guests with a gun over snacks?”
I let the gun fall to my side, hand still braced near her hip, trapping her. The air between us crackles. “You’re not a guest.”
She snorts, exasperated. “You’re a tyrant who needs to get over himself.”
I smile, sharp and dangerous. “Maybe, but you’re still here, aren’t you?”
The argument simmers, neither of us willing to back down. Every word is a challenge, every retort a spark. Her lips are close, her eyes wild, the line between danger and desire blurring in the hush of the house.
I can’t help myself. The thrill of catching her, the delicious audacity of her midnight rebellion—these are the moments I crave.
She pushes at me again, less force this time, more challenge. “You can’t control everything, Miron.”
I drop my head until our foreheads nearly touch, my voice a whisper only for her. “I can control what’s mine.”
She breathes in sharply, her defiance undimmed. “I’m not yours.”
I let the words hang, knowing they’re both truth and lie.
The silence grows electric. The danger isn’t outside my gates tonight. It’s right here, between her body and mine, in the way her glare dares me to break my own rules, in the way my restraint is stretched thin by the need to claim what’s already become the center of my world.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Her glare dares me to push her, to cross that last forbidden line. I press her harder against the wall, my handbraced beside her head, mouth ghosting along the curve of her jaw. Her pulse pounds against my lips: fast, erratic, desperate. Her body is so tense she might shatter, but when my mouth brushes the soft skin beneath her ear, she doesn’t pull away.
She inhales sharply, head tipping back just enough for me to taste the salt of her skin. My fingers slide down her arms, rough, claiming, finding her hips and holding her still when she would squirm away.
She whispers my name in protest, but it comes out breathless, barely a warning. My other hand comes up, cupping her jaw, forcing her to meet my eyes.
“You’re a terrible liar,” I murmur, my voice pitched low, dangerous. “You say you don’t want this, but your body tells me everything I need to know.”
