Heat floods my chest, drops lower. My cock stirs, and I shift my weight.
Her eyes catch the movement. They drop for just a second.
A small smirk plays at her lips before she turns toward the door.
She knows exactly what she does to me.
Always has.
"After you, my lady," I say, faking a smile I know will annoy her.
"Fuck off, Drogo," she responds, bumping her hip to my thigh.
That little bump sends a jolt straight through me—same as it has for seventeen fucking years. The contact burns through my trousers. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to drag her against me right here, claim her mouth in front of everyone, and let the world burn.
My hand finds the small of her back as we step inside—possessive, familiar. She doesn't pull away.
People swarm her. She curves her mouth into that signature expression—both there and not, a perfect shield.
She greets them, moves forward, until a man tries to grab her for a photo. His hands reach for her waist, and I'm already moving—one step closer, eyes locked on him with a look that's gotten men to back down in underground fights.
He freezes mid-reach.
I don't say a word. Don't have to. Just holding his gaze until his hands drop and he steps back, stammering.
"S-sorry, I just—"
"She doesn't like to be touched," I say quietly, voice flat. "Without permission."
He nods, pale, and backs away.
Alena doesn't acknowledge what just happened. Doesn't need to. This dance is seventeen years old—me clearing space, her pretending she doesn't need it but relaxing into the safety anyway.
Her hand brushes mine as we walk deeper into the building.
Just for a second.
Just enough.
• • •
The conference room is all glass and steel—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. Only twelve showed. The ones who matter.
I recognize most of them. Sir Graham Whitfield, old money and older opinions. Yuki Tanaka from a Japanese conglomerate. Dmitri Volkov—and yes, the irony of a Russian investor isn't lost on me.
Dmitri's watching me. Has been since I walked in. Not the polite interest of a potential investor—something sharper. More personal.
My jaw tightens.
Could be nothing.
Could be everything.
Alena settles into the chair beside mine, crossing her legs in that deliberate way that makes every man in the room forget why they came. She knows it. Uses it like a weapon.
I pull up the first slide—concept art for the park. Gothic spires rising from mist. Structures that seem to breathe.
"What you're looking at isn't just a theme park," I start. "It's a pilgrimage site for horror enthusiasts. A destination experience that will redefine immersive entertainment."
