The moment the elevator doors slid shut, the air between Kai and Naomi shifted from smoldering tension to something volatile—like a glass of wine on the edge of a table, moments from spilling.
Naomi stood with her back pressed against the mirrored wall, her reflection looking almost braver than she felt. Kai's towering presence filled the confined space, his tailored black suit still perfectly neat despite the chaos downstairs. His eyes, however, were anything but calm. They burned with the same wild fire she'd seen in him when he'd destroyed anyone who dared touch her.
"I told you to stay away from him," he said, voice low and deceptively even.
Naomi lifted her chin, fighting the instinct to shrink beneath that voice. "And I told you I'm not your possession."
The elevator hummed upward, but neither of them moved. His shadow seemed to swallow hers in the mirrored glass.
"You think that's what this is about?" Kai's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "Naomi, if you think I'm angry because you spoke to him, you haven't been paying attention."
"Then enlighten me," she shot back, though her pulse hammered in her ears.
He stepped closer—too close—forcing her back until the cool metal pressed into her spine. The heat of him made it impossible to breathe steadily. "You have no idea what that man is capable of," Kai murmured, his gaze flicking briefly to her lips. "And I have no intention of letting him use you as a weapon against me."
Her heart skipped at the word weapon. "So that's all I am to you? A vulnerability?"
"You're the vulnerability," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "The only one I can't control."
The elevator dinged, but neither moved. The doors opened to the penthouse floor, and Kai stepped back only enough to let her out. His hand never touched her, but the air still felt branded.
The penthouse was dim, city lights spilling in from the massive windows like molten gold. The silence up here was dangerous—it stripped away every distraction, leaving only the two of them.
Naomi walked ahead, trying to mask the tremor in her steps. She reached for her heels, kicking them off, and turned—only to find him already there, jacket discarded, tie loosened. He moved like a predator who had already decided there was no escape.
"You're not going to keep doing this," she said, though the conviction in her voice wavered. "Dragging me around like—"
His mouth crushed hers before she could finish. It wasn't a kiss of romance—it was possession, frustration, and something dangerously close to desperation. She gasped, and his hand slid to the back of her neck, holding her there as if afraid she might vanish.
When he pulled back, his breathing was harsh, his eyes darker than night. "You think I drag you around?" he asked, voice raw. "No, Naomi. You drag me. Every damn day."
Her throat tightened. She wanted to demand what that meant, but he was already walking away, heading for a heavy, matte-black door she had never seen open before. Without looking back, he unlocked it and stepped inside.
Curiosity—and maybe something far more reckless—pulled her after him.
The room was unlike anything else in the penthouse. It was windowless, the walls paneled in dark wood, the air faintly perfumed with leather and something smoky. On one side stood a glass case filled with vintage bottles of whiskey. On the other, a single deep-blue velvet chaise.
And at the center… a steel ring bolted into the floor, with a length of thick chain coiled beside it.
Naomi froze in the doorway. "What is this?"
Kai didn't answer right away. He was at the whiskey case, pouring amber liquid into two crystal glasses. When he turned, his gaze was unreadable.
"This," he said, "is the only place in this building I don't let anyone into. No staff. No guests. No one."
"And now me?" she asked carefully.
He stepped forward, offering her a glass. "You're not a guest, Naomi. You're… something else."
The chain on the floor caught her eye again. "You planning to lock me here?" she asked, half-teasing, half-uneasy.
His lips quirked in the faintest smirk. "Not unless you ask me to."
Her pulse jumped. "And if I don't?"
"Then we drink," he said simply, sipping his whiskey. "And you leave."
She took a slow sip, the burn grounding her. "Why show me this?"
"Because I'm tired of pretending I'm not exactly who I am around you," he said. "This room… is where I don't have to lie."
Naomi's heart pounded. "And who are you in this room?"
He held her gaze for a long, heavy moment. "Someone you might not survive knowing."
Her breath caught. She should have walked out—should have turned and left this room without keys—but her feet didn't move. Instead, she set her glass down and stepped closer.
"Try me," she whispered.
Something in his expression shifted—like a storm breaking. He placed his glass beside hers, then reached for her wrist, slow enough for her to pull away if she wanted.
She didn't.
The chain's cool metal brushed her skin as he looped it lightly around her wrist—not locking it, not binding, but enough to feel the weight. His thumb traced the inside of her palm, sending shivers through her.
"You don't have to be afraid," he murmured, leaning in until his breath was warm against her ear. "But you should be."
And in that moment, Naomi realized the danger wasn't the chain, the locked room, or even the man before her.
It was the fact she wanted him to close the door and never let her out.