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Her step faltered—just a fraction—then she recovered, voice smooth. “Heard of it, have you?”
“Maybe,” I said, grinning. “You’re not the only one who listens.”
She laughed, soft and sharp. “Careful, Dane. Keep talking like that, I might think you’re helping me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shot back, and she matched me, parrying like the mental warrior she was. Every word was a jab, a feint, and fuck, it was hot. Her mind was as sharp as her body was dangerous, and I was hooked—reeling her in, letting her pull me back.
We were sparring, circling, and I couldn’t resist. “What about that kiss?”
She stopped, turned, gray eyes locking on mine. “What kiss?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I said, stepping closer. “You remember.”
Her lips twitched, but her eyes—fuck, they were sparkling, inviting, wanting. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”
“Bullshit,” I murmured, voice rough. Heat slammed me—her on top, thighs gripping me, begging me to stick it in, grabbing my cock and forcing it inside her. I could see it, feel it, and I was two seconds from losing it.
She didn’t back off. Just watched me, daring me, that blush from earlier gone, replaced by something raw and reckless. I had to have her. Now.
We’d hit a secluded spot at the far corner of the grounds, concrete decking underfoot, trees blocking the party’s glow. I grinned, tapped my foot twice, and a hidden hatch clicked open—soft, mechanical, a secret sliding free. Her eyes widened, just a flicker, but she didn’t flinch.
“Real tour starts here,” I said, nodding at the dark stairs descending into the tunnel. “You in?”
There was a beat—hesitation in her gaze, a shadow of doubt—but then she nodded, silent for once, no smartass comeback. Just a tilt of her chin, like she was stepping into the fight she’d been chasing all along.
We descended, the hatch sealing shut behind us, and the air turned cool, tight, electric. It was just me and her now—Claire Dixon, silver dress and all, walking into my world. I had her right where I want her.
And fuck, I wasn’t sure I was the one in control anymore.
13
CLAIRE
Ishould have said no.
I should have turned around and walked right back to the ballroom, back to the crowd, back to the safety of Diego’s knowing smirk and the watchful eyes of Charleston’s elite. But instead, I followed Marcus Dane down the hidden staircase, my heels clicking against cold stone, my pulse pounding in my throat.
The hatch sealed above us with a quiet thunk, locking us away from the world above.
A smart woman would have been nervous.
Following a man like Marcus Dane into the dark, alone, where no one could hear me scream? That was the kind of reckless decision that got women in trouble. The kind of mistake whispered about in true crime podcasts, the ones where people shook their heads and said she should have known better.
And maybe I should have.
Because everything about Marcus screamed danger.
Not just the kind that came from a man with power—though he had plenty of that. Not just the kind thatcame from the wealth he wielded like a blade, cutting through this city with quiet, lethal precision.
No, it was the danger inhim. The way he watched me, like he was deciding whether to consume me whole. The way his presence was a slow, suffocating weight, pressing against my senses, leaving no room for anything but him.
I’d spent years chasing stories that led me into dark places. Uncovering the secrets that men in power wanted buried. I knew how to read a threat. How to recognize the moment when a situation tipped from risky to lethal.
And this?
This was something else entirely.
Because Marcus wasn’t just a threat. He was a temptation. A force of nature. And if I wasn’t careful, I wouldn’t just lose control. I’d give it to him. Willingly.