For a moment, everything outside our circle falls away: the honking horns, the sizzle of city heat, the glances of strangers too busy or too wise to interfere.
My heartbeat spikes—a single, bright flare of adrenaline—but I hold his gaze. I’ve practiced this for years, learned from the best. I let my expression settle into perfect stillness, give him nothing: no fear, no tremor, not even the shadow of guilt.
If he wants to see inside me, he’ll have to do better than this.
He waits, searching for a weakness, for the flicker of nerves he expects. I give him the same mirror-smooth mask he’s wearing. We’re two predators, measuring the distance between teeth.
The moment stretches—his thumb at the hinge of my jaw, his eyes narrowing, the world tight as a drum around us. He’s close enough that I can see the flecks of steel in his irises, the fine lines at the corners of his mouth. There’s something electric in the air—not just danger, but curiosity, sharp and mutual.
He expected panic. Instead, he’s found an equal.
I don’t answer. There’s nothing I could say that would satisfy him; my silence is my last defense, a refusal to play the role he wants. The city noise feels far away now, as if we’re sealed in a soundproof box, every breath amplified.
At last, he releases my chin. The touch is gone, but the echo of it lingers—command without violence, ownership without haste. He studies me for a heartbeat longer, something unreadable flickering through his eyes.
“We’re not done, you and I,” he says, voice lower, softer, but no less dangerous. A promise, or a warning—I can’t quite tell. He gestures, and his men close in.
Chapter Four - Leon
The moment her silence answers me—flat, unyielding—I feel the temperature in the world tilt. Something inside me goes from ice to wildfire in an instant.
All my patience, my controlled questions, the slow show of civility—I drop it like a mask I never wanted to wear.
I grab her.
One arm snaps around her chest, pinning her arms tight; the other clamps across her thighs, lifting her clean off the ground. She’s lighter than she looks, all muscle and grit, but she thrashes as I haul her against me.
Her knee cracks toward my ribs; I pivot, letting her graze the side of my torso instead of my solar plexus. Her nails rake my jaw, sharp enough to draw blood, but I don’t flinch. If she wants to fight, I’m happy to show her how useless it is.
The SUV door looms—one hard kick and it swings open, the hinges barely protesting. I shove her inside, the motion fast, practiced, unceremonious. She lands in a tangle of limbs on the leather seats.
I follow, swinging in behind her before she can even gather her breath. I hear her curse, half snarl, half spit, and I don’t hesitate. One hand grabs her jaw, the other slaps a strip of tape over her mouth, silencing her mid-insult.
The men pile into the front, eyes forward, hands on their guns.
We pull away from the curb, the city lights blurring behind black glass.
Inside, it’s all engine purr and panic. She writhes, jerking her wrists against the zip ties I looped around them when she tried to claw at my eyes. She bucks, twists, tries to get her feetup for leverage. Every motion is desperate, furious—adrenaline humming off her in waves—but the only sounds are the soft, ragged breathing beneath the tape and the useless slap of her heels against the seats.
I let her wear herself out, hands steepled in my lap, face carved from stone. My jaw throbs where her nails scored me, blood warm on my cheek.
The city falls away, glass towers replaced by trees, then high stone walls and gates. I press a code on the dash, and the iron gates slide open. Floodlights follow the SUV’s crawl up the drive, icy white and unblinking.
Cameras turn, tracking every angle. She glances out the window, hope flaring for a heartbeat, but when we pull to a stop, there’s nothing but empty gravel and the vast silence of the estate.
She tries to lunge when the door opens, shoulder aimed for the gap. I catch her mid-flight, hand locking around her arm, yanking her back so hard she gasps. Her heel slams into my shin, sharp enough to bruise, but I absorb it. My patience snaps.
I slam her against the side of the SUV, pinning her between steel and my body. My face is inches from hers, her breath hot against my cheek. I press her wrists above her head, lean in until there’s nowhere for her to look but me.
“Try that again,” I hiss, voice cold as the steel at her back, “and I’ll break your ankles.”
Her eyes flare, all venom and fire, but she stills—smart enough to know she’s outmatched, at least for now.
I drag her through the entryway, past the marble and crystal and the soft murmur of guests somewhere upstairs. We cut through that world—perfume, candlelight, laughter—like an infection.
My grip never slackens, even as she stumbles, even as her wrists twist in the ties. No one tries to stop me; the staff know better. They look away.
Downstairs, the world changes: no windows, no art, no warmth. Concrete underfoot, the hum of ventilation, the air sharp with the smell of bleach and cold steel. I push her through a steel door, into a room with nothing but a metal chair and a drain in the center of the floor. This is no wine cellar. This is a box for breaking people.
