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LIA

N icholas Samson moved like his shadow could eclipse the moon—and the obscene amount of money he was funneling into Corvo’s IPO made that seem entirely plausible.

It was why I was smiling at him the way all women knew how to smile when pretending to care. Polite. Pliant. Sharp enough to keep him interested, but dull enough to make him think he had the upper hand.

“…and you have to admit, in a world of AI-this and technology-that, investing in something tangible, something you can touch—a casino you can stay at —has a certain timeless appeal,” he droned, gesturing grandly with a wine glass in his hand.

I laughed, light and genteel. “You don’t have to sell me on my own hotels!”

“Oh, I’m not,” he said, plucking an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray. “I’m just here for the free drinks and caviar.”

That earned him a chuckle, small but genuine. “And obviously I agree with everything you’ve said.”

“Well, you have to,” he said, grinning. “At occasions like these, it’s practically your job to blow as much smoke up my ass as possible. I could tell you the sky was green, and you’d have to nod politely.”

“Hmm,” I replied, letting my gaze linger just a fraction too long. “Well, seeing as your stature is so much higher than mine, maybe the sky is green up there—assuming it’s the color of money, of course.”

He laughed, loud and rich. “Oh, you’re dangerous, aren’t you.”

“What can I say?” I said, giving him a slightly feral grin. “I am my father’s daughter.”

“Lia,” said a familiar voice behind me. “I need a word.”

“Ah, it’s the iron fist, come to meet the velvet glove,” Nicholas announced with a smirk as Rhaim stepped up beside me.

“More like the other way around,” Rhaim replied, his tone dry, but not teasing.

Nicholas’s eyes widened slightly, then flicked to me. “Then I’m excited to see what future depths we have to plumb, Miss Ferreo,” he said, tilting his head before departing.

I straightened my shoulders and schooled my expression the same way I had around him for the past eight weeks, three days, and twenty hours—but who was counting?

“What is it?” I asked, as neutrally as possible.

“Lambo,” he told me, quietly.

It was my safe word, repeated back to me, for the first time since we’d met in the cemetery where his wife was buried.

A chill slid down my spine, followed by a sharp, rising anger. “Have we been in a scene for the past two months and you just never bothered to tell me?” I hissed.

He didn’t dignify that with a response. “I need you to meet me in the back upstairs bathroom, fifteen minutes from now.”

I opened my mouth to demand why—but stopped myself. I wouldn’t get an answer. My hands flew to their opposite wrists, tugging the silk sleeves of my coat down to hide them—an old, anxious habit I’d almost forgotten.

Then Rhaim’s gaze softened, dragging over my face like he was seeing me for the first time in months, the wall between us cracking just enough to let him in. My heart stuttered, against my will.

It was utterly unfair.

“Act normal,” he said firmly. “Laugh when I’m done talking. Don’t be followed.”

I forced a laugh and shook my head like he’d just made a sarcastic joke—something just believable enough for anyone watching. He took my glass from me without another word and left, melting into the crowd as though nothing had happened.

I stood there, disoriented in a sea of semi-strangers. My pulse raced, each beat a reminder that the ground beneath me wasn’t as solid as I’d thought.

I went to get another glass of wine at once.

I managed to wait seventeen and a half minutes, because fuck him if he thought I was at his beck and call.

I wasn’t the same girl I was when I was thirteen—or even that I’d been two months ago.

I’d changed, I’d grown—I’d toughened up.

Mostly. But some things I hadn’t been able to leave behind.

I still read romance books before going to sleep each night, even though Rhaim had made me delete my main Instagram account.

And I was still afraid, deeply, deathly afraid, of the dark.

Luckily the upper floor of my father’s penthouse had low safety lights installed, as befitted a wealthy man in their seventies.

The bathroom was another matter, though. I didn’t see any light around the doorframe. Was Rhaim in there with the lights off, like the serial killer I was fairly sure he was? If he was, why did he want to be in the dark in there, with me?

I broke out in a cold, fearful sweat and then cursed at myself—this dress was silk, stains would show if I didn’t get the jacket off quickly.

Then I stepped forward, a floorboard squeaked, and the door opened up, revealing a narrow, brightly lit marble space inside, and a very ominous man standing in front of it.

“About time,” Rhaim mouthed, and reached for me.

He grabbed my wrist and hauled me forward, looking over my shoulder as he closed the door— for what —spies? Was this corporate espionage bullshit?

Had Corvo’s messy history been found out—did someone else know where the bodies were buried?

Before I could ask him, he brought his face nearer to mine, and sniffed, then pulled back with a frown and let me go. “You smell like wine. Has it gone to your head yet?”

I yanked off my jacket and crossed my arms, using it as an ineffectual shield to cover me. “You don’t get to care! You can’t just call me like a dog! What the fuck?”

“Things have changed,” he said, with a low growl.

I gawked at him, my mouth open, suddenly scared. “What?”

“You don’t get to know.” He was still standing much too close, even if we weren’t touching, all silent intensity.

“What’s going on, Rhaim?” I asked in a quiet voice.

“I. Need. You.”

He said each word like it was a separate sentence—and like it pained him to give them voice. And while part of me knew I should coquettishly tease him and take my upper-hand, such as it was, and make him pay—it was the earnest girl in me that spoke.

“Really?”

His shoulders sank, and I watched tension flow out of his body, only to be replaced with raw hunger. “Yes.”

“How?” I breathed.

“Turn around, bend over that sink, and pull up your pretty dress.”

It didn’t matter what I was going to do—he was already doing it for me, positioning me where he wanted by my hips, hauling my expansive green skirt high.

Only—I remembered a half-a-second too late—that I didn’t have cute underwear on tonight. I was on my period, and up until three seconds ago, had been absolutely positive no one was going to see them.

“I—” I stuttered, as his hands reached for them next, and our eyes met in the mirror, just in time for me to watch him roll his.

“I did assume you were wearing underwear, again.”

“It’s not that—I’m at the end of my period,” I blurted out.

He snorted, then tilted his head. “Is that a hard limit?”

“I don’t know—is it?”

He stepped up behind me, so that I could feel the wool of his suit against my skin, and the line of his hard on trapped inside of them, a long, thick crease.

“I’ve been married before, remember?” he asked.

“And I would pull it out with my teeth if it meant that I could fuck you.” His hands went for the waistband of my definitely-not-cute panties, but I stopped him.

“What’s wrong, Rhaim?” The question came out quieter than I’d intended, my chest tightening at the thought.

Was this one last desperate moment before his certain doom?

I couldn’t imagine anyone storming my father’s penthouse, not with all the financial celebrities mingling below.

Everything with the IPO was going swimmingly—I’d done everything he’d told me to do, and somehow I’d become the belle of the financial sector.

But I also knew he wouldn’t break without good cause. “Are—are you in danger?”

His lips pressed into a firm line. “No.”

I narrowed my eyes. No elaboration. No reassurance. Just no .

“If it’s not you…” My mind spun, clicking through possibilities like a safe cracking open. “Then it’s Corvo.”

His silence was louder than a confession. My pulse quickened, a faint roar building in my ears as the implications sank in. “Rhaim, if you’re worried, what does that mean for me? Am I in danger?”

His gaze flicked to the door in the mirror, then back to me, and for just a second the mask slipped. Concern etched lines at the corners of his eyes. “Not yet.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath me, the weight of what he wasn’t saying pressing down hard. “Not yet?” My voice rose slightly, incredulous. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Lia,” he growled. “You are smart. Smarter than anyone in that room downstairs. But right now, you need to trust me.”

I swallowed hard, every instinct telling me to push for more answers—but his intensity pinned me in place. “Fine,” I said. “But don’t think for a second this conversation is over.”

I caught the faint curve of his lips in the mirror, a shadow of a smirk. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m not a kitten, Rhaim. I have claws,” I shot back, my voice edged with warning. Said every real cat, ever.

“I know,” he replied, his tone shifting to something smoother, calmer—deadlier. “And I want to feel them on my back. Soon.” Then his gaze caught mine, steady and unflinching, as the next words fell. “But right now, I need to be in you again.”

And I—I needed that, too. I reached for my underwear with one hand, peeling them down quickly, kicking one heel out of them, as he undid the buckle of his belt and fly of his slacks—and then his hand reached between my legs, grabbing my tampon’s string to pull it out—an easy feat, seeing as I was already wet—tossing it behind him for some forlorn future cleaner to find.

His other hand went to circle himself and he dragged the head of his cock across my opening.

I closed my eyes and bent further forward, feeling the curved lip of the sink press against my belly, offering all of myself over at once, until I felt his palm around my throat.

My eyes blinked open and I found my face perilously close to the sink’s large brass hardware.

“Watch your teeth,” he warned, and pushed in.