Two weeks passed. A tense, watchful equilibrium settled over the city, and over the space between Ava Sterling and me.
The transfer went through. She was now Detective Sterling, Financial Crimes Division, a plush office in a granite tower. I saw the report on her first day: a photo of her looking stunned in a new blazer, holding a coffee she didn't have to pay for.
She hadn't used the keycard. Not once.
This irritated me more than any act of defiance. I had given her a fortress, and she was choosing to sleep in her hovel. Every instinct demanded I go to her, to remind her of the deal, of the safety I offered. But that was the old way. The Alpha command. With her, it felt… crude.
So, I engineered a meeting. Not a coincidence in a café this time. An invitation.
It arrived at her new office, by courier, at 5:01 PM on a Friday. A simple, thick black envelope. Inside, a card of heavy stock. No words. Just an address—not the opera house, but a private dining club atop the Meridian Tower—and a time: 8 PM. Embossed in the bottom corner was a single, stylized crimson rose.
A summons. But would she see it as one?
At 7:55 PM, I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the club's private dining room. The city glittered like a spilled jewel box below. I wore a suit the color of midnight, no tie. I had dismissed the staff. The room was ours.
At 8:04 PM, the elevator chimed softly. My back was to the door. I listened to her footsteps—hesitant, then firm—as she was led in by the maitre d', who then vanished.
I turned.
She stood just inside the room, a vision of conflicting signals. She wore the new blazer over a simple black dress, her hair down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She looked professional, beautiful, and utterly out of her depth. Her scent hit me first: linen, graphite, a hint of nervous ozone, and underneath, the faint, lingering sweetness of peaches not quite forgotten.
"You're late," I said, my voice neutral.
"You didn't specify a dress code," she replied, her chin lifting. "I had to go home and change."
Home. The word was a deliberate jab. She'd gone to her apartment, not the suite.
I allowed a small smile. "You look appropriate." I gestured to the table set for two, candles flickering between us, a bottle of Barolo already breathing. "Sit. The view is part of the experience."
She approached slowly, her eyes taking in the impossible luxury, the sheer dominance of the panorama. She sat, back straight, placing her small clutch on the table like a shield. "Why am I here, Ling?"
"To have dinner." I took my own seat, pouring the wine. The deep ruby liquid caught the candlelight. "To discuss the terms of our arrangement. They require… maintenance."
She accepted the glass but didn't drink. "I dropped the case. I took the transfer. What more is there?"
"Presence," I said, taking a sip. The wine was bold, complex. Like the woman across from me. "An arrangement where we never see each other is a fragile one. Trust is built in proximity."
"This isn't proximity. This is a power play." Her eyes flashed in the candlelight. "You wanted to see if I'd come."
"I knew you'd come," I said, setting my glass down. "You're a detective. Curiosity is your pathology. You wanted to see what I'd do next."
A faint concession in her posture. She was caught. She took a tentative sip of wine. "So? What's next?"
The first course arrived—oysters, glistening on ice. I waited until the server left. "Next," I said, leaning forward, the candlelight carving shadows across my face, "is you telling me why you haven't set foot in the suite. Is it not to your taste?"
She focused on maneuvering an oyster. "It's too much. It feels like… payment."
"It's a resource. One you agreed to." My voice lowered, thrumming with a possessiveness I didn't bother to hide. "I don't like the thought of you in that building with the broken intercom. It offends me."
She looked up, startled by the raw edge in my tone. "It offends you?"
"Yes." The word was final. "The woman in my custody, under my protection, should not be sleeping behind a door a child could kick in. It reflects poorly on my stewardship."
A laugh, genuine and startled, escaped her. "Your stewardship? Is that what this is?"
"It is one word for it." I held her gaze, the air between us thickening. The scent of her was changing, the ozone fading, the peach-blossom warmth emerging, responding to the focused heat of my attention. "Use the suite, Ava. Not for a heat. For a night's sleep. To get away from your phone. To read one of those books I left. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing you are safe within walls I control."
It was a confession wrapped in a command. Let me protect you. Let me possess this piece of your peace.
She was silent, her food forgotten. The city lights reflected in her wide eyes. "And if I say no?"
"Then," I said softly, reaching across the table. I didn't touch her. My hand hovered over hers, close enough for her to feel the heat of my skin, for my rose scent to intensify, to wrap around her wrist like an invisible bracelet. "I will have to become more persuasive."
Her breath hitched. Her pulse fluttered in her throat. This wasn't the fear of the opera house. This was the dizzying, treacherous thrill of a precipice. "How?" she whispered.
I withdrew my hand, the absence of contact a new kind of tension. "I'll show you." I nodded toward the elevator. "Dinner is over. I'm taking you to the suite. Not to leave you there. To show you what it can be when it's not a sickroom."
"That's not part of the deal," she protested, but she was already standing, a flush on her chest.
"The deal is evolving." I stood, moving to pull out her chair. My hand brushed her shoulder as she rose. A jolt passed through both of us. "Come, Detective. Indulge your custodian."
The drive was silent, charged. In the back of the sedan, our shoulders almost touched. Her scent, warm and nervous, filled the space. I directed the driver not to the main entrance, but to the private garage, then to the penthouse elevator that opened directly into the suite.
I keyed us in. The lights came up softly, revealing the space transformed. The clinical white was warmed by the low glow. The books were arranged on the shelf. The orchid bloomed on the side table. The grey throw was draped over the sofa.
"See?" I said, my voice quiet in the expansive room. "It's just a place. A quiet place." I walked to the window, my back to her. "The world is out there. Loud, demanding, cruel. In here, it's quiet. That's all I'm offering. Silence."
I heard her footsteps as she moved further into the room. Not toward the door. Toward the center. Toward me.
"I'm not good at quiet," she said, her voice closer than I expected.
I turned. She was only an arm's length away, looking up at me, her defenses down, her curiosity and a deeper, more confusing need laid bare.
"I know," I murmured. "That's why you need it more than most."
I reached out then, finally, and touched her. Not her neck, not her wrist. My fingers traced the line of her jaw, a feather-light caress. Her eyes fluttered closed. A soft, trembling sigh escaped her lips—the same sound she'd made with the pancakes, but now laced with a profound, aching vulnerability.
That sound undid me.
My control, the careful architecture of my restraint, fissured. My hand slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head. I didn't pull her to me. I simply held her there, our faces inches apart, my rose scent crashing over her in a heated wave.
"You will use this place," I breathed, the words a vow against her lips. "You will let me keep you safe. Because the alternative—the thought of you out there, unprotected, unmoored—is becoming the only thing in this city I cannot control."
Her eyes opened, dark pools reflecting my own desperate need. She didn't say yes. She didn't say no.
She rose onto her toes and closed the distance.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a collision. A claiming and a surrender all at once. Her lips were soft, insistent. She tasted of red wine and defiant hope. My other arm banded around her waist, pulling her flush against me. The feel of her body, soft and strong, melting into mine, was a victory more complete than any territory gained.
The spice wasn't just in the kiss. It was in the weeks of waiting. In the strategic patience that shattered in an instant. It was in the way she clutched the lapels of my suit, not to push away, but to anchor herself as I willingly drowned.
When we broke apart, breathless, her lips were swollen, her eyes dazed. My forehead rested against hers.
"That," I said, my voice raw with unchecked Alpha possessiveness, "was me being persuasive."
A slow, shaky smile touched her mouth. "It's… effective."
"Good." I stole one more, softer kiss. "Then my work here is done. For tonight." I released her, stepping back, the absence of her body against mine a physical ache. "The suite is yours. Stay. Don't stay. The choice is yours. But the invitation stands. Indefinitely."
I turned and walked to the door, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, her fingers touching her kissed lips.
I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I could feel her decision in the charged air, in the softening of her scent from fear to something else, something warmer, more complex.
The line had been crossed. The arrangement was now a courtship. And the most dangerous woman in the city had just tasted her own surrender, and found she liked it.
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