The sale of the Caravaggio sketch had propelled Thorne Gallery into the stratosphere. To celebrate this landmark achievement—and to thank the anonymous, impossibly wealthy client (whose identity Eleanor was keeping fiercely secret, unaware Elara already knew the dark truth)—Eleanor hosted a swanky, semi-formal reception in the gallery space itself.
Elara was required to attend, dressed in a simple, elegant black dress that felt far too exposed given the circumstances. She spent the early part of the evening weaving through the crowd, accepting glasses of sparkling water, and trying to avoid any patch of floor that might conceal a loose rug.
She felt exposed, a small, fragile boat suddenly dropped into a sea of polished sharks.
She had worn the silk shawl. It was draped carefully over the back of her chair in the break room, a compromise between keeping his gift and not broadcasting his terrifying attention. But just knowing it was nearby, knowing she had accepted his dominance, made her feel like a target.
And then, he arrived.
The change in the atmosphere was immediate and absolute. It wasn't a sudden burst of sound or light; it was a cessation of normal chatter, a sudden awareness that the gravity in the room had shifted. Alessandro Volkov didn't enter a room; he took possession of it.
He was dressed in a tuxedo that was both classic and utterly modern, highlighting the lethal architecture of his body. He moved with a coiled, unhurried grace that made every other man in the room seem clumsy and incidental. He was there, Eleanor later explained, as a necessary figure—a powerful patron of the arts, even if he wasn't the specific Caravaggio buyer. No one challenged his presence.
Elara's breath hitched in her throat. She saw him across the crowded room, his dark eyes sweeping the space with the cold focus of a sovereign surveying his domain. And then, his gaze locked onto her.
The distance melted away. The ambient noise of the party—the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation—became a dull roar. His eyes, black obsidian in the gallery lighting, held her captive.
He offered no smile, only that heavy, assessing look that stripped away her composure. He was the owner of the shawl, the caller of the private phone line, the dominant force in her sudden, chaotic life.
She tried to look away, to busy herself with rearranging a stack of brochures, but it was impossible.
She felt that deep, sensual thrum of awareness begin low in her stomach, rising through her chest—part panic, part terrible longing.
Alessandro started moving toward her. Slowly. Purposefully. A direct line cut through the crowd.
Panic made Elara turn abruptly, hoping to duck into the office hallway. But in her haste, she misjudged her footing. Her sensible heel caught on the edge of the display pedestal, and she pitched forward, a small, panicked sound escaping her lips.
A strong, warm body materialized instantly behind her, stopping her fall completely.
Two massive, iron-hard hands clamped around her waist, catching her just before she hit the ground.
Elara gasped, her eyes flying shut. The sensation was electric, shocking. She was pressed back against him, her spine molded to his chest, the entire back of her body searing with the heat radiating from him. The scent of his cologne—musk and cold steel—enveloped her, intoxicating and terrifying.
"Careful, Elara," he murmured, the sound vibrating directly against the sensitive skin of her ear. The closeness was brutal, intimate. She was completely at his mercy, held captive by his strength in front of a room full of people who were thankfully too engrossed in their own conversations to notice the near-disaster.
He held her suspended for a long, aching moment. She could feel the hard muscle of his abdomen beneath the fine fabric of his tuxedo, the steady, powerful beat of his heart against her back. Her own heart was slamming against her ribs like a bird desperate for freedom. She was shaking again—that familiar, helpless tremor that he found so cute.
His hands, still gripping her waist, were possessive and unyielding. The gentle dominance in his touch was undeniable. His fingers spread wide across her stomach, pulling her closer, cementing the connection. The pressure wasn't harsh, but it was absolute. He wasn't just stabilizing her; he was claiming her.
"You have a dangerous habit of falling into my arms," he observed, his voice low and teasing. "Do you need me to secure you again?"
Elara forced her eyes open. She couldn't see his face, but she felt his power wrapping around her like a physical cage.
"I… I'm fine, Mr. Volkov. Thank you," she managed, her voice a ragged whisper.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. He made no move to release her. Instead, the pressure of his hands subtly shifted, his thumbs brushing the soft skin where her dress ended. It was a fleeting, suggestive caress that made a shocking wave of warmth spread through her lower body.
He's teasing me. She realized, completely flustered. He's doing this on purpose.
Finally, deliberately, and with a slowness that made the release feel agonizing, his hands slid away. He stepped back only an inch, just enough to break the direct physical contact, but not the intimacy.
Elara stumbled forward slightly, regaining her balance. She finally turned to face him, her cheeks scarlet, her green eyes wide and frightened.
He looked down at her, his expression a masterpiece of cold, controlled dominance. The teasing was gone, replaced by the cool assessment of a proprietor.
"Be more mindful of your steps, Elara," he commanded softly, his touch lingering only for a second before he dropped his hand. "You belong in my care, not on the floor."
Then, just as quickly as he had appeared and consumed her attention, he shifted his focus. He gave a brief, sharp nod to Eleanor, who was approaching, and began a cool, professional conversation about a different art acquisition, completely dismissing Elara.
Elara stood rooted to the spot, her heart still racing, the phantom imprint of his hands burning on her waist. The innocent girl was dissolving, overwhelmed by the realization that her life was no longer her own. She was seen, pursued, and now, publicly—if subtly—claimed. She touched her waist, feeling the heat, knowing that she hadn't been scared of the fall.
She had been terrified of the man who caught her.