LUCIAN CASTELLAN

  I hit the bag like it owed me something.

  Left. Right. Elbow. Knee. Over and over again. The room smells like sweat and frustration, like rage bottled too long with no fucking outlet. My knuckles are taped, but I still feel the sting. Good. I want to feel it.

  It’s been days. Days since she received the NDA.

  And nothing.

  No reaction.

  No call.

  No curse.

  No fire.

  Just… silence.

  I expected her to snap. To storm into my office with those honey-glazed eyes blazing, spitting venom and fire like the little tempest she is. I wanted her furious. Off-balance. Unraveled.

  Instead, I got nothing.

  Even Shade couldn’t get a clear video—just a single clip, barely three seconds long, of her opening the door and taking the package. No audio. No visual of her reading it. No expression to analyze. Just that fucking moment, and then she disappeared back inside like I hadn’t just crossed every line there is.

  She’s playing a game I didn’t anticipate.

  And I fucking hate being ignored.

  No one ignores Lucian Castellan. No one dares test my patience—because patience is not a virtue I claim. Yet here I am. Still checking updates, still asking Shade for more, still rewinding that silent three-second video like it holds secrets.

  And the worst part?

  She’s pushing every boundary I didn’t even know I had.

  Effortlessly.

  Each punch lands harder than the last.

  I should be furious. And I am. But I’m also… intrigued. Baffled. Fucking obsessed. Why does she do this to me? Why does the silence she’s cloaked herself in make my blood burn hotter?

  I stop when my chest heaves too hard and my arms start to numb. The bag sways like it’s had enough of me too. I lean my forehead against it, closing my eyes.

  Her face flashes behind my lids.

  Not just her face—those eyes. Heavy-lidded. Defiant. Teasing. Knowing.

  She knows.

  She knows exactly what she’s doing.

  And the thought of that—of her reading the NDA and choosing to say nothing—makes my cock twitch with heat.

  Fuck.

  I push off the bag and storm toward the shower. I can’t walk around with this fire in my veins. Not before the meeting. Not with Rafael and the incumbents waiting.

  Hot water crashes over my back like a baptism I don’t believe in. I lean against the cold tile wall, one hand braced, the other moving down. I close my eyes again—and there she is.

  She’s on her knees.

  Naked except for that smug smirk.

  Her lips parted, breath warm, mouth open just enough to tease.

  I wrap my fist around my cock. It’s already hard. Already leaking for her.

  I imagine her tongue flicking against the head, slow and deliberate, before she slides it all the way in, swallowing like she’s starved for it. Fuck, her mouth would feel like velvet and heat, her throat so damn tight I’d struggle not to grab her hair and fuck her face until she forgets how to breathe.

  I bite down on a groan.

  My pace increases.

  Her fingers on my thighs, nails digging in like she’s just as desperate for me as I am for her. Gagging. Eyes watering. But still holding me deep in her throat like she wants to break me.

  My hips jerk. I’m so close.

  I can almost hear her—muffled moans, messy and lewd, as if she’s taking pride in turning me feral.

  Fuck, Ghost.

  My head hits the wall with a dull thud as I explode into my palm.

  Hot. Violent. Unrelenting.

  It’s the hardest I’ve come in months. Maybe longer. And all from imagining her like that—mine, on her knees, choking on me with tears in her eyes and pleasure in her throat.

  I stay there for a second, breathing hard.

  And when I finally pull myself back together, the fire is still there. Quieter now. But not gone.

  One thing’s for sure: when I finally have her—really have her—there’s no letting go. I won’t just fuck her. I’ll ruin her for anyone else. Mind, body, soul. All of it.

  Because you don’t ignore Lucian Castellan and walk away untouched.

  Not ever.

  I clean up and step out of the shower, toweling off quickly before dressing. Dark slacks. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up. I glance at my reflection as I button the cuffs. There’s a look in my eyes I recognize from years ago—right before a war, right before I take something I shouldn’t want but claim anyway.

  She’s more than a game now.

  She’s a storm I intend to master.

  By the time I head downstairs, the household is in motion. Rafael’s voice echoes faintly from the study, already gathering files. The incumbents are waiting for direction—oblivious to the woman haunting my every thought.

  I adjust the cuffs once more and check my watch.

  Let’s see how long she thinks she can keep ignoring me.

  I entered the study without saying a word. The scent of expensive cologne, aged leather, and Chinese takeout lingered in the room like a well-kept secret. Each of them—Rafael, Arlo, Xander, Dante—stood as I stepped in, offering quiet greetings.

  I acknowledged them with a single nod. That was all I had in me.

  Still cranky. Still wound up.

  I thought coming would take the edge off. I thought spilling into my hand like a fucking animal in the shower would help. It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse. Like scratching an itch only to feel it crawl deeper under your skin. What the hell is the real thing going to feel like if just the thought of her has me this fucked up?

  She’s driving me insane.

  Making me lose the one thing I’ve always prized above everything else—control.

  And that… that is unacceptable.

  I sat at the head of the long table and gestured for them to begin. Rafael spoke first.

  “Chicago’s clean. Word got out quick after the raid—no one’s dared cross our lines since. Supply lines are stable. South side’s quiet. Everything’s flowing smoothly.”

  Good. Efficient. As expected.

  Arlo followed with updates on the newer offshore accounts and a recent arms deal in Istanbul. “No leaks, no late payments. The Russians tried probing around, but they backed off after the last warning.”

  Xander chimed in with the latest from tech—cameras, analytics, tracking patterns. Even my most private systems.

  “Shade’s got her place under silent observation. Still no activity out of the ordinary,” he said. My jaw ticked.

  Ordinary isn’t a word I associate with her. Not anymore.

  Dante updated us on distribution. Cocaine and cannabis routes had stabilized since we reclaimed the Chicago shipment. Everything was operating without friction, which in my world meant something was bound to rupture soon. But that wasn’t why I called them in tonight.

  “I want a new hotel,” I said finally, fingers tapping once against the thick glass tumbler of whiskey I hadn’t touched.

  They all looked at me.

  “In New York.”

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  Silence. Then nods.

  Rafael leaned forward. “Flagship or boutique?”

  “Flagship. Bigger. Louder. Smarter.”

  I laid out the skeleton of it. A vertical haven in Manhattan. 45 floors minimum. Rooftop helipad. Secret levels underneath for my private guests—clients, diplomats, whoever needed to disappear in style. The top suites would be lined with reinforced walls and ceilings. Custom AI-secured doors. Every penthouse, a fortress.

  “Built within a year,” I added, coldly. “I want the blueprints finalized in six weeks. Start vetting architects tomorrow.”

  Ideas started flying. Rooftop lounge with a skyline view. Private elevators. Casino floors with encrypted access. Arlo suggested we tap into the same interior designer who built the Monaco compound. Dante proposed importing Italian marble and African wood to make a statement.

  As the conversation deepened, takeout arrived—Chinese, pizza, glazed chicken wings, two bottles of Coke. No one questioned it. They ate like soldiers used to strategy before dessert. We spoke logistics between bites, penciling in timelines, contractors, and permits no one else could acquire legally.

  Time blurred. The digital clock on the wall blinked 1:02 a.m.

  I dismissed them with another nod. Each man stood, offered their final notes, and filed out. Rafael lingered until I locked the door behind them.

  And that’s when it came.

  The soft buzz of my phone in my pocket.

  Shade.

  A file attachment. No words.

  Just one video.

  I opened it.

  And I stopped breathing.

  There she was.

  Ghost.

  Backlit by the amber lights of her room, the one she smokes in. The silhouette of her body stole my sanity. Black lace clung to her like sin incarnate—every curve hugged, every inch defined. The bodysuit she wore was see-through in just the right places. Her perky breasts sat perfectly in the cups, nipples hardened under mesh. The lace dipped at her waist, showing the deep indent of her hip bones and the curve that drove me wild in my dreams.

  I could see the outline of her pussy—bare beneath the lace. Fuck. The lighting hit her thighs just right, casting shadows that made her legs look even longer. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, some strands falling around her face like she’d been too high or too horny to care.

  And she was dancing.

  Not carelessly.

  Not wildly.

  But with purpose.

  Rolling her hips to the beat of something slow and sensual. The kind of music that crawls into your bloodstream and turns your cock into a weapon. Her movements were lazy, teasing. She swayed from side to side, arms raised above her head, eyes half-lidded, red from smoking. Her ass clapped lightly as she dipped down, slow and deliberate, grinding against invisible hands. My hands.

  I watched her drop into a low squat and bounce—once, twice—then rise like smoke, spine arching as if someone had their mouth on her neck. My grip tightened around the phone.

  Shade saw this.

  Shade.

  That fucking idiot saw what was meant for me.

  The urge to cut his eyes out flared hot in my chest. I nearly dropped the phone.

  But I didn’t.

  Because I watched it again. And again.

  I let the lust boil, rising like a tide I no longer pretended to control. I’d seen many women in lace. Many on their knees. Many begging to be noticed.

  But none of them moved like this.

  None of them looked for me the way she did.

  Because that’s what she was doing.

  I caught it in the fifth replay.

  Between sways.

  Between breaths.

  Her eyes—red and drowsy—lifted just a little. She looked out the window. Right. Then left. Then up.

  She was searching.

  For someone.

  For me.

  That realization punched the last thread of control from my system.

  This wasn’t a slip.

  This wasn’t her forgetting the cameras.

  This was her way of knocking.

  Of whispering, Come get me, Lucian.

  A slow smile spread across my lips, feral and full of promise.

  So… this is how she wants to play.

  I chuckled. Dark. Low. Animalistic.

  Invitation accepted, Ghost.

  I grabbed my keys and my coat in one fluid motion. Before I stepped out, I typed a single message.

  To Shade:

  Retire for the night. I’ll take it from here.

  I walked out into the night, the Sicilian wind cool against my skin. But inside?

  Inside, I burned.

  I pressed the elevator button, watching the numbers climb slow as hell. My patience was fraying thin. The video still played on loop in my mind—her swaying hips, the black lace biting into that golden skin, the glint in her eye like she knew exactly who was watching.

  And she did.

  Penthouse. Top floor. Of course. I walked down the hall with purpose, my coat swinging behind me. I rang the bell once. Waited. I could hear the shuffle inside—hesitant, but not afraid. Locks twisted, chains rattled. I smiled to myself.

  Cute. As if any of those would stop me if I wanted in.

  The door cracked open.

  And there she was.

  Hair tied in a messy bun, skin flushed from heat or smoke or maybe the game she started. That tiny black robe did nothing to hide her. Her eyes widened—just slightly—but I caught it. Surprise. Not fear. No… she doesn’t scare easily. Good..

  She clutched the robe tighter across her chest, but it was too late—I’d already seen what needed seeing. Every inch of her had been burned into my memory hours ago. She just didn’t know that yet.

  I let the moment stretch, savoring the way she looked at me—like she wasn’t sure whether to slam the door or invite me in.

  I made the decision for her.

  Pushing the door open with the flat of my hand, I stepped inside. Her scent hit me first. Sweet, earthy, intoxicating. Like night jasmine and sin. She stepped back as I walked past her, straight into her living room like I owned it. Like I owned her.

  Because soon… I would.

  She followed, barefoot, her silence laced with defiance. I could feel it in the way her steps sounded—light but purposeful. She was wondering why I was here.

  I settled on her couch, leaned back, and crossed one ankle over my knee. Comfortable. Dominant. Waiting.

  She finally found her voice.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I let the silence drag before answering, eyes fixed on her, tracking the curve of her neck, the line of her collarbone where the robe parted. My voice dropped, thick with implication.

  “I’m honoring your invitation.”

  Her brows knit together. “What invitation?”

  My lips curved. “You put on a show for me. Si?”

  She blinked. That stunned look again. She hadn’t expected me to say it. But I saw the flicker behind her eyes. The way her chest rose, just a little faster. She knew exactly what I meant.

  It was her move now.

  Her lips parted. And then—“Took you long enough.”

  That knocked the wind out of me more than it should have. My cock twitched. I muttered a quiet curse in Sicilian and watched as she turned on her heel, walking to the mini bar without another word.

  She moved like she knew I was watching. Like she wanted me to. Every sway of her hips was a dare. Every step a silent taunt.

  She pulled out two glasses and a bottle of single malt. Good taste. Poured us both drinks. No words. Just the sound of liquid meeting crystal.

  A silent invitation.

  I got up and crossed the room to her. The counter between us didn’t stop the heat from building. I took the drink, letting my fingers brush hers. She didn’t flinch.

  Her robe slipped slightly, revealing more of her shoulder. She didn’t adjust it.

  The glass was cool in my hand, the whiskey smoother than I expected. I took a slow sip. Let it settle in my chest. Then I asked—

  “What’s your name?”

  She smirked, and I could see the amusement light up in those honey-glazed eyes.

  “Cyrene.”

  I hadn’t expected her to tell me. Not so easily. It was too simple. Too… soft. I filed it away like a precious secret. Her name. Her real one. Not Ghost. Not the whisper in the dark I’d been chasing.

  “Cyrene,” I repeated, slowly, testing the weight of it in my mouth.

  “You didn’t sign the documents.”

  She took another sip. “What documents?”

  My laugh was low and humorless. The kind of sound that vibrates in your bones before it slices clean through.

  She stared at me over the rim of her glass, unbothered. Daring. There was a wicked little gleam in her eye. I wasn’t used to that. Most people either feared me or obeyed me. She did neither. She played with me.

  It made my jaw clench. My patience thin. My need coil tighter in my gut.

  But I could play too.

  So I leaned in just a little, took a relaxed posture on the stool, and said calmly, “Who’s your marijuana dealer?”

  That got her.

  She stiffened, her eyes sharpening. Her lips parted in disbelief, outrage, amusement—all rolled into one beautifully raw expression.

  Bingo.

  I chuckled, low and pleased, watching her composure crack just slightly. Not much, but enough. Enough to satisfy that cruel little hunger inside me.

  “You’re full of questions tonight,” she said, but her voice was softer now. Not surrendering—yet. But she knew I saw her.

  I took another sip, letting the silence stretch. Watching her chew on her inner cheek. Her fingers tapped the glass in her hand. Nervous energy or anticipation—I wasn’t sure. Both, probably.

  Her body betrayed her before her mouth did. She shifted again, the robe loosening slightly, a sliver of thigh teasing out beneath the hem.

  I caught it. She noticed I caught it.

  “Did you come here to interrogate me?” she asked finally.

  “No,” I said truthfully. “I came here to see you.”

  That silenced her again. Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing as if she was trying to see past my face into what I wasn’t saying.

  She doesn’t know that I’ve been seeing her for weeks.

  That her routine is embedded in my memory now

  She doesn’t know that her silence after receiving the NDA wasn’t silence to me.

  It was a declaration of war.

  “You’re trying to provoke me,” I said, stepping around the bar slowly, until we were on the same side. “But I don’t play by the rules you’re used to, Cyrene.”

  I stopped in front of her. Close. Just enough to smell her skin.

  She didn’t move. Her breath hitched, barely. Her glass was empty now, forgotten on the bar behind her.

  “I’m not easily ignored,” I said. “And you… you’ve made a habit of it.”

  Her lips parted again, maybe to argue, maybe to say something cutting. I didn’t give her the chance. I stepped closer, my hand lifting—not to touch her—but to brush just beside her jaw, knuckles grazing the air around her skin.

  She flinched.

  But she didn’t move away.

  She wanted this.

  Even if she didn’t know it yet.

  “You think the lace, the dancing, the window gazes—all of it—you think that doesn’t call to something primal in a man like me?”

  Her eyes locked to mine now. Her lips parted slightly. She was breathing harder.

  “You’re trying to own the game,” I murmured, “but sweetheart, I built it.”

  She laughed softly, but it wasn’t amusement. It was disbelief. “You really think everything’s about you?”

  I reached out and traced one finger along her shoulder, down the bare skin of her arm. Goosebumps followed my touch. Her breath hitched.

  Her voice was steady when she answered. “I think you’re used to people folding the moment you walk in. I’m not one of them.”

  No. She wasn’t.

  And that was exactly the problem.

  Or maybe the solution.

  I moved back to the living room and sat again. Needing the distance. Because if I didn’t take it, I’d take her. Right there. On that counter. With her robe open, her legs spread, and my name in her mouth.

  But I wanted more than that.

  I wanted her will.

  “You don’t get to ignore me, Cyrene,” I said, voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Not after what you started.”

  “I didn’t start anything,” she replied, walking back toward me, spine straight like she ruled the world. “You’re the one who’s obsessed.”

  That word. Obsession. She threw it so casually.

  But it was accurate.

  I didn’t deny it.

  “I don’t do half-measures,” I said. “When I want something, I take it. And I want you.”

  That was the truth.

  Pure. Unfiltered.

  She stopped in front of me. Her eyes locked on mine. Neither of us blinked. The tension stretched, wrapped around us, pulling tighter with every breath.

  Then she leaned in.

  Close enough that I could feel the whisper of her breath against my lips.

  “You can want me, Lucian,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you’ll have me.”

  I stepped back. Reclaimed my drink. Drained it. Then turned, walking back toward her front door.

  She didn’t follow, but I could feel her eyes burning into my spine.

  I paused at the threshold. Turned just enough to see her again.

  “Next time,” I said, voice low, deliberate, “don’t bother with the lace.”

  Then I walked out.

  Not in retreat.

  In promise.

  Because this wasn’t the end.