Rhoda knew he was there before she saw him.
The air felt different—too still, too tight, like the room itself was holding its breath. Her apartment lights were off except for the lamp near the couch, casting a low amber glow across the walls. She stood frozen just inside the door, keys still in her hand, heart ticking louder than the clock.
"You're late," Evan said.
Her breath left her in a sharp rush. He was leaning against the wall near the hallway, half in shadow, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He was dressed in black this time—no silk, no softness—just a fitted jacket and dark jeans that made him look like part of the night itself. Calm. Unmoved. As if breaking into her apartment was a routine courtesy.
"You can't keep doing this," Rhoda said, though her voice betrayed her. It didn't shake; it burned.
He tilted his head slightly and studied her. "I can," he replied. "And I will. As long as I need to."
Her fingers curled around the keys. "I didn't invite you."
"No," he said quietly. She stepped fully inside and shut the door, locking it out of habit even though the gesture felt ridiculous now. The click echoed too loud in the room. Evan's gaze followed her hands.
"You've been careful," he noted. "New routes. Different times. Windows locked."
Her jaw tightened. "You said you wouldn't follow me."
"I said I wouldn't follow you unless you gave me a reason." He pushed off the wall and took one unhurried step closer. "Paranoia is a reason."
"I'm not paranoid."
His mouth curved faintly. Not a smile, but an acknowledgment. "You jumped when I spoke."
Heat crept up her spine—anger and something far worse: awareness. "Why are you here?" she asked. "Really."
He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could smell him again—that clean, dangerous scent that didn't belong in her safe, small apartment. "To make sure you're following the terms."
Her laugh came out sharp. "Breaking in helps with that?"
"It does," he said. "It keeps you honest."
Her pulse thudded painfully in her throat. "You enjoy this."
His eyes darkened—not with amusement, but focus. "I enjoy control," he corrected. "And right now, you're fighting the wrong thing."
She swallowed. "I'm not fighting."
"Yes, you are." His gaze dipped—slow, deliberate—to her mouth, her collarbone, and the thin cotton of her shirt stretched over her chest. He didn't touch her. He didn't even move closer. And somehow, that was worse. "You're standing there pretending you don't feel it," he continued. "Pretending this is only fear."
Her breath stuttered. "And what if it is?"
"Then your body is lying to you."
Silence stretched, heavy and intimate. Rhoda hated that she didn't step away. She hated that the fear she'd expected—the bone-deep terror from the bank—wasn't there anymore. In its place was something dense and warm, coiling low in her stomach.
"You don't get to do this," she said, quieter now. "You don't get to come into my space and—"
"And what?" he asked softly.
The words tangled in her throat. He took another step. Now he was close enough that she could see the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Close enough that his presence felt like pressure, like gravity. He lifted a hand slowly and braced it against the wall beside her head, trapping her without touching her.
"Say it," he murmured. "Tell me what I'm doing to you."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "You're trying to scare me."
His mouth hovered near her ear, his breath warm. "No," he said. "I already did that. I'm reminding you," he went on, his voice low and precise, "that you're not as distant as you think. That you're still connected to me. That when I step into your space—" his knuckles brushed the wall, closer now, "—your body reacts before your morals catch up."
She hated him for how right he was. "Step back," she whispered.
He didn't. Instead, he leaned in just enough that his lips nearly brushed her skin—but stopped. That restraint snapped something inside her.
"You don't get to look at me like that and pretend you're not doing anything," she said, anger flashing hot and bright. "You don't get to stand there and—"
"And want you?" he finished calmly.
The word landed between them like a loaded weapon. Her breath hitched. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
For the first time since he'd arrived, something shifted. Not dominance. Not control. Hunger. It sharpened his gaze, stripping something raw from his expression. His voice dropped, rougher now. "You should be afraid of how easy this feels," he said. "Not of me."
Her hands clenched at her sides. "Then leave."
He held her gaze for a long moment, searching—testing. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped back. The space between them felt louder than his presence had been. "You're doing well," he said, smoothing his jacket. "So far."
She exhaled shakily. "That's it?"
"For tonight." He moved toward the window, glancing back at her once. "Lock it behind me," he added. "And don't pretend you didn't want me to stay."
Before she could respond, he was gone—silent as a thought she didn't want to have. Rhoda stood alone, heart racing. She locked the window, then slid down the wall and pressed her fingers to her mouth, trying to steady her breathing. Fear had been easier. Because fear didn't make you ache.
Rhoda stayed on the floor for ten minutes, maybe twenty. The cool wood of the floorboards felt grounding, but her skin still felt like it was buzzing with static electricity. She had told him to leave. She had won that round. So why did the apartment feel like an empty tomb now?
She stood up, moving toward the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. She needed to wash away the scent of rain and tobacco that seemed to have settled into her very pores. A sharp, rhythmic rapping at her front door made her jump.
It wasn't the window this time. It was the door.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Had the "lions" come? She grabbed a heavy glass vase from the counter—a pathetic weapon, but all she had. She looked through the peephole.
Evan.
He wasn't leaning casually this time. His jaw was set, his eyes dark and turbulent. Rhoda threw the locks open, her anger returning. "I told you to—"
He didn't wait for her to finish. He stepped inside, crowding her back into the narrow entryway and slamming the door shut with his heel.
"I made it to the street," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, sounding rough and unpolished. "I got all the way to my car, and all I could think about was the way your breath hitched when I didn't touch you."
"Evan—"
"You want to talk about morals, Rhoda? You want to talk about how wrong this is?" He grabbed her waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above her hips. The contact was searing. "I'm a thief. I'm a liar. And right now, I don't give a damn about the terms."
He didn't ask. He crashed his mouth against hers. It wasn't the precise, controlled kiss of a man in charge; it was desperate and hungry. He didn't need her to open up for him; his tongue sought, teased, and tasted every corner of her mouth. The force and the heat of his mouth on hers made Rhoda's body go limp. Her vase hit the floor with a thud, forgotten, as her hands flew to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, needing to anchor herself to the very danger she was supposed to be running from.
When he lifted her up, Rhoda's legs instinctively wrapped around him as he carried her to her bedroom without taking his mouth away from hers. A soft moan escaped her throat when he laid her on the bed and traced every inch of her with his tongue and hands. His hands mechanically removed the things standing between him and her bare skin.
The friction of his skin against hers was a searing heat, a brand that made every nerve ending scream. He hovered over her, his eyes dark like ink and filled with a focus that was no longer just about management, but pure, unadulterated possession. Rhoda felt him with the tips of her fingers—his raw, powerful muscles. He worked her into a heightened frenzy, stealing the strength from her bones —teasing her nipples with his fingers before covering them with the warmth of his mouth.
He let out a deep, soft growl as his hand found her, his touch a mix of slick heat against her skin. He pulled away just enough to give himself the room he wanted. He was watching her intently when her eyes flew open. Rhoda reddened and almost flinched from his intense gaze, but she was bereft of her moral senses now. He wanted to see how badly she wanted him. She reached up and caressed his manhood, her mouth following after. She teased and touched until he shuddered against her small frame; he pushed her back against the bed and moaned against her mouth. Rhoda held him too tight, her fingers digging into his skin. She didn't want to lose him.
When he finally plunged into her, her world burst into flames. She let out a jagged cry of intense pleasure, her back arching as the electricity he'd promised finally surged through her. She'd imagined he would feel like heaven, but this was way past heaven; it was a beautiful, violent descent into the gutter he ruled. She was warm and ready for his terrific invasion.
As he moved in her, Rhoda moved to match his pace and rhythm, her fingers digging into the muscle of his back. Each stroke was a powerful beat that drove Rhoda to the brink of insanity and back. He whispered her name in ways that made her skin flush, holding her like she was the only thing that existed in his world. There was no more space for fear, no more room for the bank or the "lions" outside. In the dark, rhythmic heat of her bedroom, she stopped being a witness or a victim. She became his equal in the wreckage, matching his intensity until the silence of the apartment was shattered by the sound of their shared, broken breaths.