Ariana didn't sleep that night.
After deleting James's message, she stayed at the window, watching headlights flicker through the fog rolling off the streets. Somewhere beyond the walls of Brandon's fortress, James was waiting—watching, plotting. But it wasn't fear that kept her awake.
It was the heat crawling under her skin.
Brandon had left her alone for hours, and yet his presence still lingered—wrapped around her like smoke, invisible but suffocating. She hated how aware of him she'd become. How one look, one word, one touch sent shivers deep through her core.
And worse—how much she wanted more.
She padded quietly into the hall, barefoot in one of his oversized black shirts that hung off her shoulders like sin. The mansion was silent, blanketed in shadows and secrets. But a faint hum of music floated from downstairs—low, dark, almost sensual.
She followed it.
It led her to the private lounge—a sprawling room hidden behind the grand staircase, with leather furniture and amber lighting. Brandon stood near the bar, shirtless, muscles taut beneath tattoos that curled like inked chains along his spine. A glass of bourbon in hand, a slow jazz record playing on an old player behind him.
His head turned before she made a sound.
"I couldn't sleep," she said.
His eyes scanned her slowly, from the bare curve of her thighs to the neckline falling just a little too low.
"I didn't think you would."
She stepped further in, drawn to the quiet power of the space—and of him.
"Were you expecting me?"
"No," he murmured. "But I was hoping."
He poured a second glass without asking, offering it to her as she approached. Their fingers brushed. She felt the heat of him again—dangerous, electric.
"You should be resting," he said. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."
"Then I want to feel something before the storm hits," she whispered.
Their eyes locked.
He didn't need clarification.
He stepped toward her, one hand curling around the back of her neck, the other gripping her waist like he owned her. His mouth met hers without hesitation—hungry, deep, demanding. It wasn't sweet. It wasn't slow.
It was desperation.
Control unraveled between them like thread set aflame. He walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bar, lifting her with ease. The bourbon glass hit the floor. She didn't hear it shatter. All she could feel was his hands—hot and rough—pushing the shirt up her thighs.
"I've wanted this since the first moment I saw you," he growled against her skin.
"You were watching me."
"Every night."
His mouth moved down her throat, teeth grazing, tongue tasting, lips claiming. She arched beneath him, gasping as his hands mapped every inch like a cartographer charting territory no one else would dare touch.
"You don't get to stop now," she whispered, pulling his belt loose.
"I wasn't planning to."
What followed was chaos in satin and sweat.
The bar, the wall, the floor—no surface was spared. His control cracked in pieces, and she met his fire with her own. It wasn't just lust. It was possession. Confession. A warning. That this wasn't just a night of pleasure—it was a point of no return.
By the time he carried her upstairs, both of them breathless and slick with sweat, Ariana was no longer the girl who tiptoed around shadows.
She was part of them now.
---
The next morning brought no calm.
Brandon was already gone when she woke, but a note waited beside the bed in his sharp, slanted handwriting:
> Meet me in the armory. We've got a problem.
She didn't even question it. She dressed fast—tight black pants, a fitted top from the pile of new clothes he'd had brought in, and boots that made her feel taller, stronger. More dangerous.
The armory was nothing like she imagined.
It wasn't a room full of rusty guns and bloodstained knives. It was sleek, organized, spotless. Weapons of every kind mounted like art. Monitors lined one wall. Maps, charts, profiles.
Brandon stood near a screen, his tone clipped and cold.
"Ricco Tenna made a move."
Her stomach dropped.
"What kind of move?"
"He's got a location on someone I care about. Not you—yet. But it's close."
She stepped beside him, glancing at the screen.
It showed a live feed of a downtown bar, packed with people. A name flickered at the bottom.
Kaya Lene.
A woman. Beautiful. Late twenties. Red hair. Her face looked vaguely familiar.
"Who is she?"
Brandon didn't look away from the screen. "My hacker. My ghost. She keeps my digital footprint clean. If Ricco grabs her, we're both exposed."
Ariana nodded. "So we go get her."
He turned, surprised. "We?"
"I'm not hiding. Not after last night. I'm in this now. All the way."
He studied her, something shifting behind his eyes. "Then suit up. We leave in twenty."
Ariana smiled—sharp and ready.
She wasn't a victim anymore.
She was becoming something else.
Something dangerous.