Tonight I can't stop thinking about her.
The way she stood up when I looked at her. The way her breath caught—I couldn't hear it, but I saw it in the rise of her chest, the parting of her lips. The way she crossed her arms like she was trying to hide how her body reacted.
She felt it too.
I shouldn't care. Shouldn't want some random girl whose name I don't even know. But I do.
I want her.
Want to know what she sounds like when she moans. Want to see if she tastes as sweet as she looks. Want to find out if that fire in her eyes translates to fire in bed.
This is the celibacy talking. Seven years without sex, and your brain's finally melting.
Maybe. Probably.
Or maybe she's just the first person in a decade who looked at me and saw a man instead of a beast.
I set down the glass. Stare at my reflection in the window.
Silver hair. Hard eyes. Expensive suit that can't hide what I am underneath.
I'm Axel Santego. I've killed men. Broken bones. Built an empire on fear and blood and ruthless efficiency.
I'm too old for her. Too brutal. Too everything.
But I want her anyway.
The thought shouldn’t even cross my mind. Instead, it's the first thing that's felt real since I got out.
I turn away from the window, and head for the bedroom. Tomorrow, I'll deal with Leo. Deal with Dmitri. Deal with the empire that needs its king back.
Tonight, I'll lie in my expensive, empty bed and remind myself why my body shouldn’t get what it wants.
3
AURORA
The next evening.
I stare at the black dress hanging on my hotel room door and want to set it on fire. One of Dad's associates, some art dealer who launders money through overpriced paintings, is hosting a gallery opening tonight, and I'm expected to show up. Smile. Play the dutiful daughter. Pretend I give a shit about modern art when all I can think about is silver hair and dark eyes and the way my body betrayed me last night.
"You're being ridiculous," I tell my reflection. "All you got from him was just a look. Get over it."
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I haven't stopped thinking about him. The silver-haired man who made me wet without touching me, without speaking, without doing anything except exist in the same room. I woke up this morning aching, frustrated, my hand between my legs, trying to recreate whatever the hell that feeling was.
It didn't work.
Nothing worked.
I grab my phone, pull up the group chat with Chloe and Tiana.
Me: Kill me now. Dad's making me go to some boring art thing tonight.
Chloe: The one with all the rich old men who smell like cigars?
Me: That's the one.
