Elena's POV
The private elevator did not move like a normal machine. It didn't jerk or hum; it glided upward with a silent, pressurized force that made my ears pop and my stomach drop. The interior was a small, suffocating box of polished mahogany and gold leaf. In the reflection of the mirror-finished doors, I could see the two of us standing there—a study in contrast. I was a splash of midnight blue, trembling and small, while Alaric was a towering shadow, his white shirt stained a deep, bloody crimson from the wine.
The silence was heavy. It wasn't the kind of silence that meant nothing was happening; it was the kind of silence that preceded a lightning strike. I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the elevator's internal clock and the faint, frantic drumming of my own heart. I kept my eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator. 105... 108... 112... We were climbing far above the city, away from the witnesses, away from the safety of the crowd.
I reached up, pretending to fix a loose strand of hair, and tapped my earpiece. Static. The elevator was shielded. Jax was gone. I was truly on my own in the cage with the lion.
"You're doing it again," Alaric said. His voice was a low, resonant vibration that seemed to travel through the floorboards and up into my heels.
I didn't look at him. "Doing what?"
"Counting," he replied. He shifted his weight, and the scent of him—that intoxicating mix of sandalwood and something wild—became overwhelming. "You're counting the seconds. You're measuring the distance to the doors. You're looking for an exit that doesn't exist."
I finally turned my head to look at him. He wasn't looking at the doors. He was watching me in the reflection, his amber eyes hooded and dark. "Anyone would be nervous, Mr. Thorne. You practically kidnapped me from your own ballroom."
"Kidnapped?" He let out a short, dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "I am saving you from my security team. If I had left you down there, Marcus would have had you in an interrogation room within five minutes. He doesn't believe in 'accidental' spills any more than I do."
He stepped closer. The space in the elevator was already small, but now it felt microscopic. I was backed against the mahogany paneling, the wood cool against my bare skin. Alaric placed one hand on the wall beside my head. I could see the fine hair on his forearm and the way the muscles moved beneath his tanned skin. Up close, he didn't look like a businessman at all. He looked like an ancient warrior dressed in the skin of a modern man.
"Tell me, Elena," he whispered, leaning down. "What is a girl with hands as soft as yours doing with a signal jammer in her evening bag?"
My breath hitched. My bag. I had a small, high-tech jammer hidden in the lining to prevent the tower's passive scanners from reading my fake ID. I thought it was shielded.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "It's just a clutch. It's for my lipstick and my phone."
"Liar," he murmured. He didn't sound angry. He sounded fascinated. He reached out with his free hand and ran a finger along the edge of my lace mask. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt of electricity through my entire body. "Your skin is cold, but your pulse is racing. You're terrified, yet you haven't looked away from me once. Most people can't look me in the eye for more than three seconds. They see the beast behind the glass and they run. Why aren't you running?"
"Maybe I'm tired of running," I said, a spark of my real self slipping through the cracks of my persona. It was the truth. For ten years, since the day the Thorne Empire swallowed my father's life's work, I had been running. I had been hiding, changing my name, and living in the shadows.
The elevator slowed to a halt. A soft chime echoed through the small space. Level 125: Penthouse.
The doors slid open, revealing a world of black marble and starlight. The penthouse was an open-concept fortress. Huge glass walls offered a 360-degree view of the city, the lights below looking like scattered diamonds on black velvet. There were no warm colors here—only greys, blacks, and deep blues. It was a cold, beautiful museum for a man who lived alone.
Alaric didn't move. He stood in the doorway, blocking my path. "This is the part where you tell me who you really are. Before we step out of this elevator. Because once you enter my home, the rules of the world below no longer apply."
I looked at him, my mind frantically weighing my options. I needed that key-card. It was still there, tucked in the pocket of the jacket he had draped over his arm. If I could just get him to relax, if I could play the part of the seduced woman for just one hour, I could get what I came for.
"I'm just a woman who made a mistake," I said, stepping forward until my chest was almost touching his. I reached out and touched the wine stain on his shirt, my fingers trembling. "Let me help you with this. Please."
Alaric's eyes darkened, the amber turning to a deep, molten gold. He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment, his nostrils flaring as if he were catching my scent again. Then, he stepped back, gesturing into the darkened apartment.
"The laundry room is through the kitchen," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "But I think we both know that's not why we're here."
I walked past him, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. The floor was cold under my thin heels. As I walked, I scanned the room. I saw the high-tech security console near the entrance. I saw the heavy, reinforced door to his private study. And I saw the bedroom, where the large, silk-covered bed sat like an altar in the center of the room.
"I'll get you a fresh shirt," Alaric said, walking toward the bedroom. He tossed his jacket onto a black leather sofa as he passed it.
The jacket. The key-card was right there.
I waited until he disappeared into the bedroom. I stood still, listening. I heard the sound of a drawer opening. I heard him sigh—a heavy, weary sound that made him seem momentarily human.
I moved. I was as silent as a shadow. I reached the sofa in three long strides. My hand went into the pocket of the tuxedo jacket. My fingers brushed against something hard and plastic. The card.
"Looking for this?"
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. Alaric was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. He had already pulled his shirt off. In the dim light, the sight of his bare chest was breathtaking—he was covered in lean, hard muscle, his skin bronzed and perfect. But it was his face that stopped my breath. He was holding a small, silver card between his fingers.
The real key-card.
He had moved it from his jacket to his pocket before we even got into the elevator. He had known the whole time.
"You're a terrible thief, Elena," he said, walking toward me with a slow, purposeful gait. "But you're a very interesting spy."
He stopped right in front of me, the card held just out of my reach. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. The "Beast" wasn't just a nickname; it was a presence. I could feel it in the air—a heavy, electric energy that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Now," he whispered, dropping the card onto the floor. He didn't care about it anymore. He reached out and placed his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs tracing my collarbones. "Tell me why the daughter of Arthur Sterling is standing in my living room."
The world stopped. He knew. He had known since the moment I touched him.
"How?" I choked out, my eyes filling with tears of frustration and fear.
"I never forget a face," Alaric said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "And you have your father's eyes. You came for revenge, didn't you? You came to take back what I stole."
"You destroyed him!" I shouted, the anger finally breaking through my fear. I pushed against his chest, but he didn't budge. "He was a good man, and you broke him because you wanted his patents! You turned us into beggars!"
"I did what I had to do to survive," Alaric said, his grip on my shoulders tightening. "In this world, it's eat or be eaten. Your father was weak, Elena. But you..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to my lips. "You are not weak. You are a firebrand. You are the first thing that has made me feel alive in years."
He leaned in, his lips brushing against mine. "You want your revenge? Take it. But it will cost you."
"What cost?" I whispered, my voice breaking.
"Stay," he murmured against my mouth. "Stay the night. Play the game to the end. If you can survive one night with the Beast, I will give you the card. I will give you the servers. I will give you everything."
It was a devil's bargain. I should have spat in his face. I should have run for the elevator. But as his lips pressed against mine, I realized with a terrifying clarity that I didn't want to leave. The hatred was there, burning hot, but it was being drowned out by a hunger I didn't understand.
I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "Deal," I whispered.