CYRENE TEMPEST

  The door clicked shut behind him.

  Silence bloomed in the space he left, stretching its limbs into the corners of my penthouse. Stillness crept up my spine like a cold whisper, but I didn't shiver. Not yet.

  I didn't move for a full thirty seconds.

  Just stood there, staring at the closed door, my breath slow and controlled while my body screamed otherwise—my nipples peaked beneath the satin, thighs pressed tightly together to contain the throb he'd left in his wake.

  Next time, he'd said. Next time, don't bother with the lace.

  I let out a laugh, breathy and sharp, and walked backward slowly until my calves hit the edge of the couch. I sank down into it, arms slack at my sides, my head tipping back.

  "What the fuck was that?" I murmured to the ceiling.

  Lucian Castellan at my door. In my home. At two a.m.

  All because I danced.

  I should feel hunted. Maybe even violated. I should be angry that he had eyes on me—saw me in black lace, practically fucking the air. But I wasn't mad. Not really. No, that wasn't what I felt pooling low in my stomach, hot and thick.

  What I felt was power.

  He came.

  Because I wanted him to.

  That's what haunted me most in the quiet aftermath. The knowledge that something in me—some reckless, provocative part—wanted to lure him in. Wanted him to see me. Wanted to spark whatever storm I glimpsed in his eyes tonight.

  And God, did I succeed.

  I closed my eyes and replayed it—the way he looked at me when I opened the door. The confusion and rage, all wrapped up in barely leashed desire. He was furious. Turned on. Possessive. Wild behind the control. His jaw was locked tight, his gaze dragging down my body like I was already his, like he was trying to memorize how I looked before he ruined me.

  That's what I saw in his eyes.

  And I felt it—between my legs, in the tight ache that pulsed stronger every second I stood in front of him.

  I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and stood, slow and deliberate, my robe slipping slightly off my shoulder. I left it like that. Let the cool air kiss the exposed skin. I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, needing to distract myself from the way my thighs kept pressing together of their own accord.

  Lucian Castellan. In my penthouse.

  I still couldn't believe it. That performance wasn't even supposed to be... that much. I mean, yeah, I rolled my hips and played with the lace like he was already watching, but I didn't actually think he'd show up.

  Not really.

  But part of me did, didn't it? Part of me hoped.

  I took a long sip of water, then set the glass down and padded to the Cloud Room. I didn't bother turning on the lights—just opened the floor-to-ceiling windows, letting the city lights pour in, casting everything in silver and shadows.

  I flopped down onto the oversized couch, legs tucked under me, my heart still racing.

  Was it the rush of being caught? The danger? The knowledge that this man, this kingpin, couldn't stop thinking about me? That he tracked me down, arrived like some fucking avenging god, towering and furious and so goddamn sexy it hurt?

  I groaned and let my head fall back against the couch.

  I was soaked.

  No point lying to myself now. Not when the truth was wet between my legs, sticky against my skin.

  My mind wandered, unrestrained. The way he sat on my couch like he owned it. The way his voice dropped when he said I'd invited him. That low, guttural tone that vibrated through me like bass. That look on his face when I told him, Took you long enough.

  The way his jaw twitched like he wanted to punish me for saying it.

  Fuck.

  I should've been scared. I wasn't.

  I was high on it. The tension. The game.

  And God, the things I thought about while I danced... I hadn't let myself replay them earlier, but now, in the aftermath, there was no hiding.

  When I swayed my hips, I pictured him behind me, one hand gripping my waist, the other tangled in my hair. His voice in my ear, low and filthy, telling me to keep going, to show him how badly I wanted it.

  When I dropped low, I imagined his gaze burning through the glass, jaw clenched, one hand wrapped around his cock as he watched me through the lens. Stroking himself slow, waiting for me to spread my legs wider, to grind deeper.

  By the time I turned and let my ass clap for him, I was soaked. Literally dripping into my lace, wishing he was here. Wishing he'd burst through the door and pin me to the floor, fuck the control right out of me.

  I squeezed my eyes shut at the memory. My fingers drifted across my inner thigh. Tempted.

  So fucking tempted.

  But no. I wasn't going to come thinking about him.

  Not tonight.

  I pushed up from the couch and wandered to the kitchen. Something normal. I needed grounding. Heat. Food.

  I pulled the leftover pasta from the fridge, popped it into the microwave, and leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

  My body was still humming. Like electricity lived in my blood now, and I didn't know how to shut it off.

  This man... he was a walking contradiction. Cold but burning. Distant yet present. He terrified me in the most delicious way. And he made it so clear tonight—he would not be ignored.

  But neither would I.

  If he thought I was going to fall to my knees and play his little pet, he had another thing coming. I might've danced, I might've teased, but that was me asserting control. My stage. My terms.

  I didn't belong to him.

  No matter how good the fantasy felt.

  Still, I couldn't ignore what pulsed inside me—the curiosity, the desire, the insane thrill that came with knowing I had power over a man like him. That I got under his skin. That I made him leave his castle and come to me.

  The microwave dinged. I grabbed the bowl, grabbed a fork, and ate at the counter. Bite after bite, I tried to focus on the creamy texture, the taste of garlic and herbs. Anything but the aching emptiness between my legs. Anything but the way he looked at me.

  I finished the bowl, rinsed it in the sink, then made my way to my bedroom.

  The robe slipped off my shoulders as I walked.

  I let it fall.

  I slid under the sheets naked, pressing my face to the cool pillow. My thoughts spiraled. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Sitting on my couch. Standing in my doorway. Asking for my dealer with that cocky tilt of his head.

  I'd almost choked on my own amusement. Of course he'd dig for leverage. Of course he'd come back to control.

  But I didn't answer. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

  Still, that single question undid me more than I expected.

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

  "I'm not your doll," I whispered to the dark.

  Not your pet.

  Not your submissive.

  But even as I said it, my mind betrayed me—fed me flashes of him pressing me into the mattress, whispering filth into my ear, licking the sweat from my collarbone as I came for him again and again.

  I growled under my breath and buried my face in the pillow.

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  Tomorrow, I'd be clearheaded again. I'd be back in control.

  But tonight... tonight I let myself feel it all.

  The chaos.

  The heat.

  The danger of what I'd just started.

  Because this wasn't the end.

  This was only the spark before the wildfire.

  And I was ready to burn.

  ___________

  I woke up too late for it to be respectable. The kind of late that leaves a dull throb behind your eyes and a heavy ache in your limbs like you’ve slept through something important. I lay there a moment, tangled in sheets and shadows, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers.

  I had no strength to get up. My body felt like it belonged to someone else—sluggish, unwilling. Maybe it was the aftermath of the night before. Maybe it was Lucian.

  Just as I started drifting back into a haze of nothing, the doorbell rang.

  Again.

  That bell had become far too familiar lately. Like it had its own rhythm, like it knew me, like it had expectations.

  Still half-asleep, I paddled barefoot to the door, every step slow, reluctant, and opened it to find a delivery man standing like he belonged there—like it was normal to show up in the middle of the day carrying a stack of three matte black boxes and an armful of black roses.

  Black roses.

  There was a note.

  Be ready by 8. —Lucian

  No explanation.

  Just an order. Be ready.

  I took the boxes and the roses with the sort of practiced calm that masked everything burning underneath. Thanked the man. Closed the door.

  Set them down.

  Stared at them.

  Like they were dangerous.

  Because they were.

  I opened the smallest box first.

  A black diamond set—earrings, bracelet, choker. Understated only in size, not in intent. The kind of gift that said I see you. I own you. I dare you to deny it.

  The second box held a dress.

  Gold. Liquid gold. Shimmering even in the dim light of my apartment. It was silk, of course. Lucian wouldn’t pick anything less decadent. It slipped between my fingers like water, soft, delicate, but with enough presence to make anyone stop and stare. It was the kind of dress designed for someone to take off—and he knew it.

  Deep V-neck. Dangerous. Subtle curve-hugging cut that hinted without begging. The hem hit just below the knee, the kind of length that dared the mind to fill in the rest.

  And in the third box—Prada heels. Five inches. Sharp. Sleek. A warning and a weapon all in one.

  I stared at it all.

  Then laughed.

  Not because it was funny. But because the butterflies in my stomach were throwing a rave and I didn’t know how to silence them.

  He was doing it again—getting under my skin. Into my head.

  And worse?

  I was letting him.

  I felt giddy. That strange kind of excited that made your breath catch and your thoughts scatter. I didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t have the tools to dissect it, didn’t have the will to try.

  So I didn’t.

  It was only two p.m. I had time to kill, hours to burn. But I couldn’t calm down. Not with that dress in the room. Not with his note echoing in my skull.

  Be ready by 8.

  As if I belonged to him.

  As if this was normal.

  My stomach grumbled, yanking me out of my daze. Loud and unashamed. Fine. Something light.

  I went to the kitchen, pulled tortillas from the fridge, heated them on the pan, and filled them with grilled chicken, bell peppers, a hint of chili. Easy, familiar. I poured pineapple juice into a glass—cold and sharp—and took my time eating. Slow. Methodical. As if feeding my body could slow the thoughts racing in my mind.

  It helped. A little.

  After, I sprawled out on the living room rug like a starfish, belly full, limbs stretched. My hair fanned around me, wild and unruly, just like my thoughts. For a moment, I felt content. Calm. Like myself again.

  But it didn’t last.

  Lucian had invaded my world with his boxes and his roses and his unspoken promises. He didn’t ask. He never did. He just moved through my life like a force of nature, and I—

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to resist him or feel more of it.

  With a sigh, I reached for my laptop, needing to ground myself in something rational. Routine. Work. Logic. I did my usual security sweeps, combed through flagged files, sent out necessary replies. Focused.

  It helped.

  It always did.

  But even as my fingers moved across the keys, my mind was already wandering toward the inevitable.

  The dress. The heels. The diamonds.

  Him.

  Be ready by 8.

  I closed the laptop and stood, staring at the boxes again. I should have been angry. Should’ve felt manipulated or boxed in or trapped. But I didn’t.

  What I felt?

  Anticipation.

  Dark, molten, dangerously sweet.

  So I went to shower. Let the hot water peel away everything else—doubt, fear, resistance. And when I stepped out, steam curling around me like smoke, I wasn’t the girl who’d woken up tired and tangled.

  I was the woman he wanted to see.

  And I wasn’t going to let him think he was the only one calling the shots.

  I took my time moisturizing every inch of my body. Slowly. Intentionally. Let the rich cream sink into my skin, making me feel soft, expensive. Then came the body mist—Victoria’s Secret Vanilla Lace—a scent that lingered like a memory. Sweet. Addictive. Dangerous.

  My palms were slick from all that indulgence, so I washed and rinsed them, moving straight into my face routine. Cleanser. Toner. Serum. Moisturizer. A final spritz of rose water. My face, like the rest of me, was prepped—flushed, alive.

  I slipped into my short robe, skin still warm from the shower and product, and made my way to the Cloud Room. My sanctuary. My escape. Black walls. Velvet chaos. I reached for a freshly rolled blunt resting in its glass tray, lit it without hesitation, and took the first slow inhale.

  Calm.

  I padded back to my bedroom, blunt in hand, exhale trailing behind me like smoke and intention. My playlist shuffled on, the bass thrumming low as I sat at my vanity and began my makeup.

  I wanted bronze. And nude. Enough glow to make the dress proud, enough restraint to make him chase what he couldn’t have. Gold shimmer dusted my lids, smoked out just so. My skin was bronzed and dewy, lips painted in a muted rose that whispered, not shouted.

  Smoke break. A few puffs. The song changed. I swayed.

  I pulled my hair into a sleek ponytail, wrapping it into a tidy bun. There was no way I was letting my hair hide the back of that dress. It deserved its own spotlight.

  Another inhale. Another beat dropped.

  Time blurred, thick with scent and sound, until I reached for the last detail—my gold necklace with the initials CT. A quiet declaration. Personal. Unmistakable.

  I glanced at the accessory box Lucian had sent.

  The black diamond choker sat there like a demand. Beautiful, yes—but also a chain. A claim. I snorted.

  A choker? Really? What do I look like—a pet?

  Of course I wasn’t wearing it. Let him fume. He should be grateful I was even honoring his little invitation. That smirk on my lips? Pure defiance. Let him choke on it.

  I finished my makeup with one last sweep of setting spray, stepped back, and caught my reflection. My breath hitched.

  Damn.

  Sexy didn’t even begin to cover it. This was art. A sin. And I hadn’t even slipped into the dress yet.

  7:30 p.m.

  I took a few last puffs for the road. Killed it. Mouthwash, then a mint. I wasn’t about to roll up smelling like smoke. There was nothing cute about ash breath.

  By 7:50, I was fully dressed. The gold silk clung to me like it had been sewn onto my body. Every curve was worshipped. The dip of the neckline dared gravity. The hem skimmed just below my knees, dancing with every step. The five-inch Prada heels added the final exclamation mark.

  I moved to my office, took care of business—routine sweeps, server checks. Locked down the security system. I didn’t trust nights like this. Not when Lucian Castellan was involved

  . 8:00 p.m.

  Right on time.

  The doorbell rang.

  A slow smile curled at my lips.

  Punctual. I thought. Of course he is.

  I walked to the door, every step a performance. And when I opened it, I almost forgot how to breathe.

  He stood there like sin carved into form—black tailored trousers, a crisp white button-down short-sleeve, the sleeves short just enough to reveal the full sleeve of tattoos snaking down his veiny arm. His silver Patek Philippe glinted under the hall light, his shoes glossy, flawless. And his hair—slicked back into a low bun, not a strand out of place.

  Power. Sex. King.

  That’s what he looked like.

  His eyes dragged across me—slow, burning. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared like he wanted to consume me, piece by piece. The weight of his gaze made me press my thighs together, trying to ease the throbbing need he stirred with just one look.

  And he knew.

  That smirk.

  He knew.

  “Bella,” he said finally, voice low and husky—like velvet dipped in whiskey. The sound alone knocked the air right out of my lungs.

  I swear, my body reacted like it was under a spell.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he added, and his eyes paused on my neck. Right on the absence of the choker. His gaze sharpened just slightly. He noticed.

  Good.

  My own smirk played at my lips. Let the games begin.

  “You look dashing, Mr. Castellan,” I replied, reaching up to adjust his collar. It didn’t need adjusting, of course. I just wanted to touch him. Even if it was for a second

  He didn’t stop me.

  He just stared.

  Amused. Curious. Unreadable.

  He whispered a soft, “Thank you,” and held out his arm. I took it, letting him lead me down to the waiting McLaren parked outside. Midnight black. Polished to perfection. A silent beast.

  A man of taste. I thought, slipping into the passenger seat.

  The drive was quiet—charged. The music was low, the city blurring past in gold and black streaks. I didn’t ask where we were going. He didn’t tell me. It felt like something unspoken between us. A pull.

  Eventually, we pulled up in front of a restaurant I’d never been to before. The exterior didn’t scream wealth, but it whispered it—quiet elegance, refined money, not the kind that needed to prove itself.

  He parked. Came around to open my door. Gentleman, of course.

  Inside, the staff didn’t ask his name. Didn’t check a reservation. They saw him and simply nodded, wordlessly guiding us to a private table tucked in the back. Low lighting. Intimate. Discreet.

  No introductions. No delays.

  Okay, daddy. I see you.

  Lucian pulled out my chair, and for a brief second, I felt like I’d stepped into another version of my life. One where men like him wore power like perfume, and women like me toyed with fire just to see if we’d burn.

  He didn’t order. He didn’t need to.

  They brought wine. Poured it silently.

  I sipped, watching him.

  He didn’t stop me.

  He just stared.

  Amused. Curious. Unreadable.

  He whispered a soft, “Thank you,” and held out his arm. I took it, letting him lead me down to the waiting McLaren parked outside. Midnight black. Polished to perfection. A silent beast.

  A man of taste. I thought, slipping into the passenger seat.

  The drive was quiet—charged. The music was low, the city blurring past in gold and black streaks. I didn’t ask where we were going. He didn’t tell me. It felt like something unspoken between us. A pull.

  Eventually, we pulled up in front of a restaurant I’d never been to before. The exterior didn’t scream wealth, but it whispered it—quiet elegance, refined money, not the kind that needed to prove itself.

  He parked. Came around to open my door. Gentleman, of course.

  Inside, the staff didn’t ask his name. Didn’t check a reservation. They saw him and simply nodded, wordlessly guiding us to a private table tucked in the back. Low lighting. Intimate. Discreet.

  No introductions. No delays.

  Okay, daddy. I see you.

  Lucian pulled out my chair, and for a brief second, I felt like I’d stepped into another version of my life. One where men like him wore power like perfume, and women like me toyed with fire just to see if we’d burn.

  He didn’t order. He didn’t need to.

  They brought wine. Poured it silently.

  I sipped, watching him.

  “You’re upset about the necklace,” I said, meeting his gaze with calm defiance.

  His smile was slow. Dangerous.

  “No,” he replied. “Just taking note.”

  “Mmm,” I hummed. “Is that what you do? Take note of how well your leash fits?”

  His eyes gleamed, sharp and wicked. “Only when I know the collar would’ve looked better on you than the necklace.”

  My breath hitched. Heat flushed low in my stomach.

  He knew exactly what he was doing.

  And I hated that I liked it.

  “You think you can dress me, command me, and I’ll just fall in line?” I asked, lifting a brow, swirling the wine in my glass.

  “I think you already did,” he said simply, eyes flicking down to my dress, then back up. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  I held his gaze.

  Stalemate.

  And then we both smiled.

  Because we knew the rules.

  This wasn’t romance.

  This was war.

  But tonight, we were choosing civility. Elegance. A table, a bottle of red, and the illusion of calm.

  Underneath it all?

  Tension.

  Unspoken promises.

  Hunger.

  Lucian poured more wine into my glass. Then raised his to mine.

  “To tonight,” he said.

  “To tonight,” I echoed, clinking mine with his.