Page 82 of My Wedding Night Massacre

Who the fuck is she?

My penthouse is on the fifty-third floor of the most expensive building in the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows, imported marble, furniture that costs more than some people's houses. I bought it the year before I went to prison, barely got to enjoy it before the feds kicked down my door.

Viktor kept it maintained. Fresh flowers in the entryway, fridge stocked, bed made with Egyptian cotton sheets.

It's perfect.

It's also empty as hell.

Exactly the way I like my space.

I pour three fingers of whiskey, stand at the window, look out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, she's going home. Climbing into bed. Maybe thinking about me, maybe not.

Probably not.

I'm forty-three. Silver hair, lines around my eyes, scars from fights I barely remember. Seven years in prison didn't make me prettier. The last thing some young woman wants is a washed-up convict with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.

Even if she looked at you like she wanted to climb you like a tree.

Fuck.

I drain the whiskey and pour another.

Before prison, I could ignore women. Could walk through a room full of models and not feel a thing. Sex was just sex—mechanical, forgettable, something I did when the urge got too strong to ignore. Faces didn't matter. Names didn't matter.

Nothing mattered except business.

But tonight?

Tonight I can't stop thinking about her.

The way she stood up when I looked at her. The way her breath caught—I couldn't hear it, but I saw it in the rise of her chest, the parting of her lips. The way she crossed her arms like she was trying to hide how her body reacted.

She felt it too.

I shouldn't care. Shouldn't want some random girl whose name I don't even know. But I do.

I want her.

Want to know what she sounds like when she moans. Want to see if she tastes as sweet as she looks. Want to find out if that fire in her eyes translates to fire in bed.

This is the celibacy talking. Seven years without sex, and your brain's finally melting.

Maybe. Probably.

Or maybe she's just the first person in a decade who looked at me and saw a man instead of a beast.

I set down the glass. Stare at my reflection in the window.

Silver hair. Hard eyes. Expensive suit that can't hide what I am underneath.

I'm Axel Santego. I've killed men. Broken bones. Built an empire on fear and blood and ruthless efficiency.

I'm too old for her. Too brutal. Too everything.

But I want her anyway.

The thought shouldn’t even cross my mind. Instead, it's the first thing that's felt real since I got out.