Page 7

A strange, dizzying jolt strikes the center of my chest.

The height. The breadth of those shoulders.

Brock?

The thought strikes like an electric shock, but I shove it down with fierce embarrassment. You're so obsessed you see him everywhere. Half the executives in this city have tailored coats and dark hair. And this man doesn't move like Brock. Brock has a particular stillness, a controlled economy of motion. This man shifts his weight slightly, rolls one shoulder back, and tilts his head in a way that feels unfamiliar.

His lower face is exposed. A strong jaw darkened by evening stubble, and a firm mouth set in a hard line.

He falls still, watching me as his gaze travels slowly over my body before returning to my face.

"Ivy-27," he says.

His voice is a low, resonant rumble—deep and vibrating with authority that makes my knees feel soft. The cadence is different from what I expect. Slower. More deliberate.

I swallow hard. "Yes. Vanguard?"

"Yes." His gaze never wavers. "Are you comfortable proceeding? Safe words active?"

The professionalism, delivered in that commanding tone, does something wicked to my lower belly.

"Yes," I say, holding my chin up. "Red to stop. Yellow to adjust. I'm comfortable."

"And you want me in this room?"

Heat rises through my collarbones. I hold his gaze and nod. "Yes. Please come in."

He steps across the threshold.

As he passes me, I catch a faint trace of cedarwood and something clean. He turns, catches the edge of the door with one large hand, and pushes it shut.

The lock clicks into place.

Vanguard turns to face me. He doesn't rush. He stands in the center of the room, unbuttoning his tailored overcoat with smooth movements. He slips it off and drapes it over an armchair, revealing the powerful contour of his chest and the tapered line of his waist beneath the black shirt.

I stand near the entryway, my fingers curling into the fabric of my skirt.

"You're shaking, Ivy," he observes quietly.

"I'm... not used to this," I admit.

"I know," he says softly.

I blink, surprised, but he continues before I can question it.

"Come here," he commands.

It isn't a shout. It's a calm, low directive that carries absolute expectation.

My pulse leaps. Heat floods through me—not fear, but something sharper. Arousal mixed with surprise at how much I want to obey. My feet move before my brain gives the instruction. I take three slow steps forward until I'm standing less than two feet from his chest. Up close, the heat radiating off his body is palpable. I have to tilt my head back to look into his masked eyes.

I chose this. I chose him. And I'm choosing to follow his lead.

"Why are you here tonight?" he asks.

My throat feels dry. "I wanted to let go."

"Let go of what?"