The sun didn't rise so much as bleed across the skyline.
Azriel's penthouse stayed dim. Elira sat cross-legged on the corner of the sleek leather couch, sipping coffee like it was ammunition. Her eyes were on the city below, but her thoughts spiraled inward. She hadn't slept. Neither had he.
They had arrived late last night, Azriel driving his black SUV through silent backroads with Elira beside him, sharp and watchful. It was safer here. Hidden, untraceable. The penthouse towered in the city's shadows, one of the few places where no name or record could tie them.
They had freshened up after arrival. Azriel went to his room upstairs while Elira took the guest room. With no spare clothes, she showered and slipped into a robe, her damp hair curling against her back. The house was silent except for the occasional hum of the city far below.
She should've stayed in the guest room.
But curiosity buzzed through her like electricity.
She climbed the stairs quietly, the hem of her robe brushing the wooden steps. The door to his master bedroom was slightly ajar. She stepped in.
The room was immaculate. Dangerous.
Black with touches of gold, the walls smooth, the space minimal but expensive. Cold perfection. The scent of cologne and clean steel. The bed was king-sized and covered in sleek sheets, everything aligned too precisely.
The en-suite shower was still running.
She padded inside, eyes sharp, fingers twitching. One drawer. Two. Locked cabinet. A desk. She knelt and opened the desk drawer.
USBs. Encrypted. Symbol-marked. Her heart thudded.
A creak.
Steam hissed into the room.
She looked up—Azriel stepped out of the bathroom.
Towel low on his hips. Muscles damp and defined, water trailing over his chest, arms, abs. His tattoos, wet and darker, curved across the carved lines of him. His black hair slicked back from his face. His eyes locked on hers immediately.
"Looking for something?"
She snapped the drawer closed. "Towels. I needed... a towel."
"In my desk?"
"I got lost."
He stalked forward, dripping, unhurried, menace in motion. "You think I'm stupid?"
"No, I think you're an asshole."
"Careful, sunshine."
"Or what? You'll kill me? Hurt me?"
He smirked. "No. But I might stop tolerating you."
She tried to pass him. He caught her wrist.
"Let me go."
"No."
He slammed her against the wall. One hand pinned both her wrists above her head, while the other rested on her neck—bare, vulnerable skin. Not choking. Just enough to make her pulse jump.
Her robe slipped further down one shoulder. Her breath came shallow.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she growled.
"You don't belong in my room."
"And you don't belong in my space."
"Your space is mine right now."
"You don't own me."
"I don't need to."
She bared her teeth. "You psychotic bastard."
He leaned in. "Say it again."
"You fucking lunatic."
"Getting turned on, Vale?"
"In your dreams."
"I don't dream. I hunt."
"Touch me again, and I swear—"
"You'll what? Claw my face? I'm trembling."
"You arrogant piece of shit."
"Keep talking, sunshine."
She writhed against him. "Get your fucking hand off my throat."
"Why? It's not like you're screaming."
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her robe had loosened far too much. She was all heat and rage and tension.
"You want war, Moreaux?" she spat.
"I am war."
She twisted violently and managed to break free with a shove.
"I will burn this entire place down before I become your toy," she hissed.
"Try it," he murmured, deadly calm, his eyes glittering like shards of obsidian.
She stormed downstairs, heart racing, fists clenched.
When he followed minutes later, she didn't look at him.
"Can I get some clothes?" she asked coldly.
He opened a drawer in the kitchen. "I'll have something brought. Deal with it until then."
He was dressed casually now. Grey sweatpants riding low on his hips, a black t-shirt stretched over his chest and arms, clinging to muscle. He looked lethal even in comfort.
She was still in the robe, tense and simmering.
Before she could argue again, a sharp chime echoed from the encrypted inbox. An email. No subject. No sender.
Just a string of symbols.
Then the phone rang.
Azriel answered. "Caelum."
"We got something," Caelum said. "An event. Underground party. Tomorrow noon."
"How did you get that?"
"Anonymous email. Encrypted. Just landed minutes ago. We traced the IP—five jumps. Someone wants us there."
"Thalia?"
"Talon hacked into the caterer's system. Got her listed as a waitress."
"And Elira?"
"She needs to go in as your lover. Unattached guests won't get past the lobby."
"Talon?"
"Bodyguard. He's already suited. Caelum and I are managing things from the other end."
"Location?"
"I'll send it. Play it smart."
Azriel ended the call.
Elira crossed her arms, eyes sharp. "I'm not playing your girlfriend."
"You'll need to."
"Over my dead body."
He gave a mock sigh. "Why is that always the alternative with you?"
"I'm not dressing up and playing house with you."
"You want to find the bastard behind the girls' list?"
Her jaw clenched.
"Talon agreed. Thalia's in. You're the last piece. Or we abort."
She paced. Frustrated. Furious.
This was a nightmare. But also her only lead.
After several minutes, she exhaled hard. "Fine. But if you touch me—"
"I'll be gentle," he said with a crooked smile.
She glared. "I'll stab you."
"I'll bleed for you."
"Fuck you."
He turned, already at the stove, cooking again. She watched his hands. His grip on the knife. How precise it all was. He chopped onions like slitting a throat. Calm. Beautiful. Brutal.
She folded her arms.
She was just sent to kill him.
Now she was here. In his kitchen. In his robe. Watching him cook.
Maybe he was using her.
Maybe he wasn't innocent.
Maybe he was something else entirely.
And that frightened her more than she'd admit.
Her eyes lingered too long. Her thoughts spiraled too deep.
What game was he playing? What secrets still slithered beneath that calm, lethal mask?
The sound of her own name jolted her. "Elira."
She looked up. He was watching her.
A slow smile touched his lips. "Get dressed. Tomorrow, we go hunting."
She narrowed her eyes at him, still not moving.
He walked over to the kitchen counter, tapped on his phone. "Thalia's bringing you clothes."
The way he said it left no room for argument.
And yet, Elira couldn't help but feel the wall between them tighten, as if tomorrow's plan might be a battlefield of its own.
To be continued...