LUCIAN CASTELLAN

  I just watched her.

  Sitting across from me like she hadn’t just committed an act punishable by death.

  Legs crossed. Arms folded. That damned smirk lifting the corner of her mouth like this was a game she was winning. Her body language was relaxed, but every inch of her was alert. I wasn’t the only predator in the room. She was watching me just as closely—reading, calculating, filing everything away.

  And for the life of me, I couldn’t place it.

  What was it about her?

  I’d met defiance before. Dismantled it. Buried it. But with her, it didn’t come from some desperate attempt to posture. It came naturally. It sat in her skin like heat. It wasn’t a mask. It was her. And it made me want to strip her bare and see what the defiance looked like when she was gasping.

  The gold silk dress I had dispatched to her draped over her body like it belonged there. It was meant to disarm her. Instead, she turned it into armor. The neckline dipped just low enough to command attention, and she knew exactly what kind of distraction that was. But that wasn’t what stoked the heat in my blood.

  It was the necklace.

  A simple, understated chain. Gold. A small pendant dangling at her throat.

  C.T.

  She wore it like a declaration. A direct defiance of the choker I’d sent—custom-made from Vienna, diamond-edge, meant to assert ownership. To claim. Instead, she wore that. Something else. Someone else’s.

  And still, she sat there.

  I didn’t speak at first. I wanted to give myself the illusion of control. The fantasy that I wasn’t seething, that I wasn’t one word away from snapping the stem of the wine glass between my fingers.

  But my restraint was thin. So I asked.

  “Who’s Tempest?”

  Her gaze met mine, steady. There wasn’t even a flicker of surprise.

  And then that smile—just the corner of her mouth lifting like she’d been waiting for the question.

  “Why are you asking?” she said softly.

  I didn’t look away. Didn’t bother hiding the heat behind my eyes. “Trying to know who I have to kill, bella.”

  There was the barest lift of her brow. Like I’d amused her.

  “You’d never find him,” she said.

  Him.

  The word dropped like a stone into a still pool.

  I felt it ripple through me, violent and immediate. My jaw ticked. My grip tightened on the edge of the table. That one syllable told me everything and nothing—and that was the problem. Because now I’d hunt. And not because of jealousy. Because I couldn’t not know.

  Her mood shifted the moment it left her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say it, or maybe she had, but either way, she knew it tipped the balance. I watched her eyes darken—not in fear, but in retreat. Like she’d given too much away.

  It made me want more.

  But I knew I wouldn’t get it. Not yet.

  So I filed the moment. I’d come back for it.

  She leaned back slowly, letting the silence stretch between us.

  “Why am I here, Lucian?” she asked finally. “What’s the real reason? Because I don’t believe you sent a dress and a car just to ask about my necklace.”

  Her tone was light. Her meaning wasn’t.

  She wanted a reaction. She was testing me.

  And it was working.

  But I wouldn’t feed it.

  Not yet.

  Instead, I reached under the table and unzipped the leather pouch I’d brought with me. The scent hit her before the contents even cleared the opening—pungent, earthy, rich with citrus and pine. Her eyes dipped to the bags, her fingers twitching against her thigh.

  Three ounces. Three strains. All elite cuts from my Amsterdam facility.

  “You seem to know a thing or two,” I said smoothly, placing the bags in a clean line before her. “Thought we could vet them together.”

  Her gaze moved over them like a jeweler appraising gemstones.

  “You’re trying to distract me with weed?”

  “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

  She didn’t smile. But I saw the flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

  She picked up the first bag—Gorilla Glue #4—held it up to the light, then opened the seal and took a slow, deliberate inhale. Her lashes fluttered once. I watched the motion like a starving man watches a dripping faucet.

  She took a bud between her fingers, rolled it gently, testing the structure.

  She repeated the process with the second—Girl Scout Cookies—then the third, Blue Dream.

  “Brown paper or woods?” I asked.

  “Brown paper,” she replied.

  I gave a small nod. My bodyguard emerged like a phantom from the shadows and placed a lighter, a grinder, and a pack of thin brown rolling papers on the table, then melted back into the dark.

  She reached for the grinder and got to work.

  “The Blue Dream batch,” she said, her voice analytical, “was dried too hot. Probably thirty-six hours too fast. You lost the linalool and most of the caryophyllene. It’s got a hay note underneath the sweetness.”

  I tilted my head.

  Accurate.

  No hesitation. No bullshit. She didn’t flinch under scrutiny.

  I said nothing. Just watched her grind.

  Her fingers moved with quiet expertise. She rolled the Gorilla Glue with the grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times. Not a wrinkle. Not a mistake.

  “And the others?” I asked.

  “Perfect,” she said. “Slow-cured. Trimmed by hand. Whoever did it actually gave a damn.”

  That’d be Arlo’s crew. I made a mental note to give them a raise.

  She sealed the blunt, lit it, and took a long drag. Her lips parted. The smoke flowed from her mouth like silk.

  I lit the GSC I’d rolled while she worked, matching her rhythm. Three inhales. Controlled. Deep. Letting it settle in my bloodstream.

  The room thickened.

  “If you already vetted these,” she said, “why bring them here?”

  Nothing misses her.

  “I wanted your opinion.”

  I said it just to needle her.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. That was her version of an eye-roll. I passed her the GSC blunt. She handed me the Glue. Our fingers brushed—not by accident.

  She brought it to her lips and inhaled. A slow, practiced drag. She held it for a second, then exhaled in my direction. Smoke curled between us like a middle finger made of vapor.

  I returned the favor.

  We passed the blunts twice more. No words. Just sampling. Just breathing each other in like the room wasn’t big enough to contain the tension.

  “If you already vetted these,” she said, “why bring them here?”

  Nothing misses her.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “I wanted your opinion.”

  I said it just to needle her.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. That was her version of an eye-roll. I passed her the GSC blunt. She handed me the Glue. Our fingers brushed—not by accident.

  She brought it to her lips and inhaled. A slow, practiced drag. She held it for a second, then exhaled in my direction. Smoke curled between us like a middle finger made of vapor.

  I returned the favor.

  We passed the blunts twice more. No words. Just sampling. Just breathing each other in like the room wasn’t big enough to contain the tension.

  She sat back, lashes low over her eyes, and I let mine rest on her face, her collarbone, the dip at the base of her throat where my choker should have been.

  She was beautiful. Yes.

  But it wasn’t just that.

  It was the confidence. The calm. The way she occupied space without permission.

  Like a rose with razors for thorns.

  I took a hit. Inhaled deep. Let it burn slow in my lungs. Then exhaled, watching the smoke rise toward the ceiling as if it could escape what I was thinking.

  What I was feeling.

  My cock had been straining since the moment she stepped out in that dress. Now it throbbed.

  She was sensual in the quietest, most lethal way. No dramatics. No show. She didn’t need them. Her presence demanded attention without asking for it. She moved like smoke—beautiful, elusive, impossible to catch.

  She shifted some minutes ago.

  Subtle. But I saw it.

  The way she re-crossed her legs tighter, like she needed the friction. Like the tension between us wasn’t just mental anymore. Like she felt it, too.

  And I knew I had the same effect on her.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

  She didn’t blink.

  “Which one?”

  “Why me?” I paused.

  Why the invite?”

  She took a long, slow inhale. Her exhale was unhurried.

  “Because you needed to be there.”

  “Did I?”

  She nodded. “You’re not just anyone.”

  “No,” I said darkly. “I’m not.”

  “I wanted you to see what you couldn’t have.”

  I chuckled once, low and humorless.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Bella. If I wanted you, you’d be mine already.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Maybe. But what if I want to be the one who chooses?”

  “You already did. The second you wore that dress.”

  She didn’t argue. That was her tell.

  She leaned back against the velvet cushion, smoke curling around her face like a halo. Her skin glowed in the low lighting, smooth and warm, like bronze kissed by fire. Her nails tapped softly against the side of the crystal glass.

  “You’re dangerous,” she said.

  I nodded. “You’re not wrong.”

  “But you’re not unreadable.”

  I tilted my head. “No?”

  “You’re looking at me like you want to ruin me.”

  I leaned in slowly, letting my voice drop into a lower register.

  “No, bella. I want to own you. There’s a difference.”

  Her breath hitched.

  Barely. But I caught it.

  And that was all I needed.

  The conversation dropped. We smoked in silence, tension humming like live wire between us. The kind that doesn’t fade. The kind that only snaps when skin meets skin.

  I knew then I’d have her.

  Not in a bed. Not just in a moment.

  But wholly.

  Eventually.

  Because I always get what I want.

  And right now, what I wanted was Cyrene.

  Stripped. Open. Gasping.

  Wearing my necklace around her throat.

  I slid the freshly printed NDA across the polished mahogany table, the crisp paper whispering secrets as it moved. The document was meticulously crafted, outlining stringent confidentiality clauses and, notably, a requirement for Cyrene to be present at my firm twice a week for routine security sweeps. An unusual stipulation, perhaps, but necessary.

  Cyrene’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the document, her fingers tracing the lines with deliberate precision. She paused, her gaze lifting to meet mine.

  “Twice a week?” she queried, her tone laced with skepticism. “Why not send a representative? This seems excessive.”

  I leaned back, steepling my fingers. “Because I want you to oversee it personally. It’s a matter of trust and assurance.”

  She arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement. “Trust? From you?”

  I offered a tight smile. “Consider it a compliment.”

  She tapped the document thoughtfully. “Once a week. That’s my counter.”

  I shook my head slowly. “Non-negotiable. The terms are set. However, you may choose the days that suit your schedule. A gesture of goodwill.”

  Before she could respond, I signaled the waiter, effectively closing the topic. Her eyes, momentarily glazed, reminded me of the first time I saw her—stunning, enigmatic, and utterly captivating.

  She leaned in, her voice a sultry whisper. “All that power, all that rage—and still, you sit there hard and silent because you don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t beg.”

  I stared at her, the silence stretching between us. Then, a slow, dark chuckle escaped my lips.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” I murmured. “I’m hard and silent because I’ve already won. You’re wet and defiant because you haven’t figured that out yet.”

  Her breath hitched, lips parted slightly, but before she could retort, the waiter returned to take our orders. She seized the moment to compose herself, her demeanor returning to its usual poise.

  I ordered a variety of dishes, knowing her penchant for indulging after a smoke. As the waiter departed, the tension between us thickened, palpable and electric.

  Leaning forward, I fixed her with an intense gaze. “If I slid my fingers between your thighs right now, would you be wet for me, Bella? Or still pretending you’re in control?”

  She took a measured sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine.

  “You want to test it, Bella? Slide my fingers in and see how ready you are for everything you pretend you don’t want?”

  She leaned in, her movements slow and deliberate, the neckline of her dress revealing just enough to stir my desire.

  “You think I need to beg to make you lose control? No, sweetheart, I’ll make you want it without a single word. That’s my power.”

  And damn if she wasn’t right.

  I didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just watched her lips wrap around those words like they were crafted for seduction alone. She was power—coiled, quiet, cunning—and I fucking admired the way she wielded it. No theatrics. No desperation. Just pure, unfiltered confidence. The kind that could bring a man to his knees without a whisper.

  Yes, that was her power. And right now, it had my full attention.

  The waiters arrived with our meals, the aroma of the dishes momentarily diverting her attention. Her eyes lit up at the sight, a genuine smile gracing her lips. She glanced at me briefly before focusing on the feast before us.

  _____________

  The drive back was silent.

  Not cold. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy with everything left unsaid.

  Cyrene sat beside me, one leg crossed over the other, her hand lazily tracing the hem of that gold silk dress—my dress—like she didn’t notice how my gaze kept dropping to her thigh. I didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. The weight of the evening still hung between us, electric and unspent. My knuckles flexed on the steering wheel.

  I hadn’t let the driver take us back. I wanted control of something—anything—after that fucking dinner.

  She’d turned the entire night into a slow-burning power play. That necklace. Her defiance. The way she’d leaned in and murmured “That’s my power,” like she hadn’t just made my cock twitch under the table.

  She was right.

  And I hated how much I liked it.

  The city blurred past the windshield, neon slicing across her profile—every flash of red and gold making her look like something untouchable. A high priestess draped in silk and sin. I glanced at her once, twice, but she didn’t meet my eyes. She was watching the buildings, calm as ever.

  As if I hadn’t threatened to slide my fingers between her thighs forty minutes ago.

  As if she hadn’t wanted it.

  “You’re quiet,” she said, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was low, almost amused. “That’s rare.”

  “I’m thinking,” I said.

  “Dangerous habit for a man like you.”

  I smirked. “You’d be surprised.”

  A beat passed. I downshifted smoothly, taking the final corner before her street. My hand brushed her thigh as I reached for the console. She didn’t move.

  Didn’t flinch.

  The car eased to a stop in front of her penthouse. Valet lights glimmered against the pavement, and a doorman stepped out instinctively—but I gave a quick shake of my head. Not yet.

  Not done.

  Cyrene didn’t open the door. She just turned slightly in her seat, angling toward me with that same slow, deliberate grace she wore like skin.

  “You always deliver your NDAs with dinner?” she asked, arching a brow.

  I tilted my head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Only when I want to be sure they’re taken seriously.”

  She smiled. “And if I told you I still plan to revise the terms?”

  “Then I’d tell you to reread the part where it says the terms are final.”

  She laughed—soft, low, infuriatingly pretty. Then she reached down, gathered her clutch, and made a move to open the door.

  But I caught her wrist before she could.

  Not hard. Just enough to make her pause.

  She turned to face me, eyes meeting mine in that still, charged moment—like the air around us recognized the shift before we did. My grip wasn’t possessive. But it was a question.

  She felt it too. I could tell.

  “You knew what you were doing tonight,” I said, voice quiet. Dangerous.

  Her chin tilted. “So did you.”

  I released her wrist. She didn’t move away.

  We stared at each other for three long seconds. A single inhale. A heartbeat.

  Then I leaned in.

  Not to kiss her. Not yet.

  Just close enough to make her feel it.

  The heat. The restraint. The coil of tension pulling taut between us like wire.

  “You wore my dress,” I said, voice almost a growl.

  “I chose not to wear your necklace.”

  “Because you wanted to provoke me.”

  “No. Because I wanted you to understand I’m not one of your possessions.”

  I smiled. Dark. Dangerous. “You think I collect women like trophies?”

  “I think you’re used to obedience.”

  She was right again.

  And I hated that even more.

  “I don’t want your obedience, Cyrene,” I murmured. “I want your surrender.”

  Her eyes flashed. She leaned in closer.

  “You’ll have to earn it.”

  And just like that—she pulled away. Opened the door. Slid out of the car like smoke.

  I sat there, jaw tight, one hand still clenched on the wheel.

  I should’ve let her go.

  But I didn’t.

  I got out, rounded the car, and caught up to her just before the entrance. She didn’t startle when I stepped in behind her. Just turned, slow and calm, like she’d been waiting for it.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” she said softly.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  She moved to turn again—but I stopped her.

  This time, my hand found her waist.

  Not rough. Not gentle either.

  She froze.

  Then, slowly, I dipped my head, bringing my mouth just close enough to brush the shell of her ear. I let my lips part. Let my breath fan over her skin.

  “Next time,” I whispered, “you’ll be begging me not to stop.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Didn’t need to.

  The way her body swayed slightly toward mine, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers clutched the strap of her purse a little tighter—that told me everything.

  And then she turned and walked away, hips swaying with that quiet, devastating confidence.

  I watched her disappear into the elevator, the doors sliding shut like a final exhale.

  I didn’t move for a long time.

  Didn’t speak.

  Didn’t even blink.

  My fingers flexed at my sides.

  She thought she was in control.

  But she didn’t know the half of it.

  Not yet.

  She would.

  The moment I closed Cyrene’s door behind her, the weight of the evening slipped off my shoulders—only to be replaced by the sharp, insistent buzz of my phone. My hand reached instinctively for it, and I glanced at the screen, seeing an unknown number.

  I answered without hesitation, the calmness in my voice belying the turbulence I could feel just beneath the surface. “Lucian Castellan.”

  The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, but its urgency was clear. “Mr. Castellan, this is Gavin Owens from Westminster Projects.”

  I straightened at the mention of the company. Westminster Projects was a key partner in the expansion of my hotel empire. If there was trouble with them, it could unravel months of strategic planning.

  “Yes?” I kept my tone clipped, commanding.

  “We’ve hit a snag with the New York development,” Gavin continued. “There’s a major delay in the permit process. The city council’s being stubborn, and it’s going to set us back at least two weeks unless we can resolve this quickly.”

  I sucked in a breath, the flickering candlelight in my penthouse offering little comfort. “Two weeks?” My voice had gone dangerously low. “Explain.”

  “Sir, the issue’s with the zoning regulations. They’re questioning the height of the building—specifically, the structure’s impact on the skyline,” Gavin explained, his voice thick with frustration. “It’s… it’s a political thing, and we can’t push them without escalating it. They’re claiming the design violates historical preservation codes in the area.”

  I could feel the walls closing in around me. My plans had been so meticulous. Every detail from the architects down to the subcontractors had been executed to perfection. And now, two weeks? I wasn’t going to let that happen.

  “Take care of it,” I ordered, my jaw clenched. “And if it requires more leverage, use it. Money talks.”

  “Understood, Mr. Castellan.”

  I hung up the call, my eyes narrowing as I stared out the window at the city lights below. There was no room for failure. This development was going to happen, even if I had to turn this situation into something else entirely.

  As my mind raced, another thought hit me—Cyrene. She had left, but I could still feel her lingering presence.

  The way her body had trembled slightly at my touch. I’d gained her submission in ways she hadn’t even realized yet, but that was another challenge for another time. Tonight, I needed to focus.

  The development wasn’t the only thing demanding my attention. There were other players—other threats—lurking in the wings. But tonight, the hotel development was front and center.

  I took a moment to gather myself, my thoughts sharpening.

  It was time to take control again.