Page 93 of The Tower

The challenge was for both of them after all. And there would be no going over that edge until she begged. For either of them.

And she would beg. He’d make sure of it.

He’d push her to the brink again and again until those perfect lips formed the word “please.” Until those clear eyes clouded with desperate need. Until she forgot that this was a transaction, a bargain, revenge.

Until she forgot everything except his name—and how to get down on her knees, lift that beautiful face, and beg.

He leaned against the door, smiling as he remembered the look on her face when he’d issued that edict. Shock. Anger. Surprise.

But it was the flicker of arousal that would be burned into his memory forever.

Soon, he knew, she’d beg.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a whiskey he didn’t particularly want. The domestic comforts of the loft had become a dangerous illusion—the meals they shared, the movies they watched together, her body nestled against his on the sofa, her scent lingering on his sheets even though he refused to touch her.

For years, he’d thought she was just like her father and would have happily destroyed her. Now … well, now he would protect her with his life.

He’d gone from wanting to destroy her to doing whatever it took to protect her, this woman he’d once believed was little more than a porcelain doll of Victor Reed’s creation.

He’d been so fucking wrong.

He tossed the whiskey back, downing it in one swallow, as he recalled the movie from the other night. Secretary.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew exactly what message she’d been sending, leaning back against him like that, her body radiating warmth and invitation.

It had taken every ounce of his control to walk away, to maintain the fiction that this was still about power and leverage rather than the truth gnawing at his insides—he wanted her. Not just her body, not just her testimony against her father, but her. Her laugh. Her stubborn determination. The way she kept finding strength despite everything life had thrown at her.

He moved to the window, looking out at the city lights spread below like a carpet of stars. Years of surveillance. Of watching her through cameras, through data streams, through the digital world she’d created in Elysium. He’d told himself it was strategic. Necessary. Just gathering intelligence on his enemy’s daughter.

What a fucking lie.

He’d watched her because he couldn’t look away. Because something in her called to something in him—a recognition of shared trauma, perhaps, or simply the magnetic pull of a woman who refused to be broken despite being surrounded by men determined to shape her to their will.

Men like him.

The self-loathing was familiar, almost comforting in its bitterness. He was no better than Victor Reed. Different methods, different goals, but the same fundamental belief: that Sasha was a means to an end rather than an end in herself.

Except that wasn’t true anymore, was it? Oh, he’d still happily destroy Victor Reed with Sasha wielding the sharpest darts—assuming the prick ever showed his face again—but somewhere between pulling her from that gala and watching her rebuild herself in the safety of this apartment, she’d become essential. Not a weapon, but a woman he desperately wanted to claim.

He should let her walk away once Victor Reed was behind bars. Let her see how many options exist beyond the cage her father had built.

But how could he? Even if it meant putting her in a cage of his own making, how could he ever let her go?

He couldn’t.

He was a selfish son-of-a-bitch. And Sasha Reed was his, whether she fully knew that yet or not.

He wasn’t the hero in this story.

He was just the lesser of two evils.

Thirty-One

High Society

The crowd swirls around me, a kaleidoscope of designer gowns and perfectly tailored tuxedos. The top of Grimm Tower has been transformed into the most breathtaking display of wealth I’ve ever witnessed—and that’s saying a lot.

Massive ice sculptures catch the moonlight, reflecting the glow onto the rare orchids from Southeast Asia that cascade from custom-built crystal pergolas. Champagne fountains flow endlessly. And the glittering Manhattan skyline provides a backdrop that makes even my father’s lavish galas seem quaint in comparison.