His words are a terrifying absolution. He’s claiming my chaos, my darkness, my “instability,” and framing it not as a liability, but as the very foundation of our bond.
He stops dancing, holding my face between his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. The piano music swells and fades, leaving us in silence.
“I don’t love you, Kinsley,” he whispers, and the words are a physical blow.
Then he continues, his voice dropping lower, becoming rough with an emotion so raw it terrifies me more than any threat.
“This isn’t love, it’s more than that. It's a necessity, it’s breathing. I look at you, and I see the storm, the fire and the brilliant, chaotic mind that keeps it all turning. I see every broken piece, and every perfect edge. And it is all mine.”
He leans in and kisses me. It’s not a kiss of passion or comfort. It’s a kiss of ownership. A seal. A brand.
When he pulls away, I am breathless. The world I knew, the rules I lived by, the future I planned—it all died tonight alongwith Asher Monroe. And in its place, there is only West. My chaos and his peace. My storm and his anchor.
He looks at me, waiting. He needs to hear it. He needs my surrender to be absolute, not just physical.
And the words come, quiet and devastating, a final, whispered admission of the truth he has forged tonight.
“There’s nothing else,” I say.
Forty
Kinsley
The triumphant smile that touches West’s lips is the most terrifying and beautiful thing I have ever seen. It’s not a smile of happiness. It’s a smile of profound, absolute completion. The final piece of a universe-sized puzzle is clicking into place. He has won. And with my whispered words, “There’s nothing else,” I have just handed him the crown.
He leans in again, but the kiss that follows is different from the one that sealed his ownership. It’s slower, deeper, a searchingexploration of the territory he has just officially claimed. It’s a kiss that says,Mine. When he finally pulls away, the vast, empty room feels charged, the air thick with everything that has just been decided between us.
He rests his forehead against mine, his breathing evening out. The manic, predatory energy has receded, replaced by a calm so deep it feels ancient. The hunter is done with the chase. Now, he can simply enjoy his prize.
“Good,” he whispers, the word a soft vibration against my lips. He straightens up, his hands sliding from my face down my arms, his touch leaving a trail of fire on my skin. He keeps my hands in his, his thumbs stroking the backs of my palms.
“This place has served its purpose,” he says, his gaze sweeping over the cold, minimalist space. “It’s clean. A blank slate where we could wipe the world away.” He looks back down at me, his eyes dark and possessive. “But it’s not home. I’m taking you home.”
I don’t protest, I don’t have the will or the desire to. I simply nod, a single, slight movement of surrender.
He leads me out of the apartment, his hand a firm, warm pressure on the small of my back. We descend in the private elevator, the silence no longer awkward or tense but charged with a new, dangerous intimacy. In the subterranean garage, David is waiting by the sedan, his face a perfect mask of professional indifference. He doesn’t look at me, he doesn’t acknowledge the dead man or the chaos we just left. He simply opens the door.
The car ride back through the city is a dream. I lean against West, my head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if it were made for me. The city lights blur into streaks of gold and white through the tinted windows, a world apart. I am sealed in this dark, leather-scented cocoon with him, and nothing else feels real. He wraps an arm around me, pulling me closer until myear is pressed against his chest. I close my eyes and listen to the steady, rhythmic drum of his heart. It’s the only sound that matters, the only truth in a world that has become a lie. It is the new center of my universe.
The ascent in his private elevator is different this time. It’s not a journey to a meeting or a performance, it’s an arrival. The doors slide open directly into the familiar, magnificent living room of his penthouse, and I suck in a breath.
The doors slide open directly into the magnificent living room, the lights low, a fire already crackling in the hearth. But West doesn’t stop. His hand is a firm, undeniable pressure on the small of my back, and he doesn’t guide me toward the couches or the warmth of the fire. He steers me with singular purpose past it all, down the familiar hallway. My heart begins to hammer in a frantic, wild rhythm against my ribs. He knows what he wants. The time for games, for dancing, for talking is over.
He pushes open the door to his bedroom. The room is vast and dark, dominated by a bed that looks big enough to swallow the world, but he doesn’t lead me to it. He pulls me inexorably toward the far wall, the one made entirely of glass.
The floor-to-ceiling window is a breathtaking, terrifying spectacle. A sheer wall of black glass that separates us from a billion pinpricks of light. The entire city is laid out at our feet, a glittering, sprawling tapestry of power and life that feels a million miles away. He brings me right to the edge, so close I can feel the faint, deep chill of the glass through the silk of my dress.
“I wanted you to see it from up here,” he says, his voice a low vibration behind me.
“See what?” I whisper, my eyes fixed on the dizzying view.
“My city,” he says. Then his voice turns cold, possessive. “The world I just burned down for you.”
He turns me to face him, my back now just inches from the cold glass. His eyes are glowing with the reflected city lights, like a predator’s in the dark.
“That locket…” he begins, his gaze dropping to the platinum square at my throat. “That was for them. A brand, so they would all know.” He reaches behind my neck and undoes the clasp. The chain slides free, and he holds the locket in his palm for a moment before setting it down on a nearby table with a soft, definitiveclick.“But we don’t need it anymore. Not tonight.”
He steps back, giving me a foot of space. His eyes never leave mine as he shrugs his broad shoulders, and his bespoke tuxedo jacket slides off, landing in a heap on the floor. He’s done with the performance. He reaches up, unties his bowtie with a single, sharp tug, and lets it drop to join the jacket. The formal, civilized man from the gala is gone. Only the predator remains.
