Isabella Sinclair found herself pressed against the broad, icy surface of the table, the cold seeping into her bones as her vision blurred into a dizzying haze.
“You…” Her voice was barely a whisper before Alexander Kingsley’s lips crashed against hers, swallowing her words with a ferocity that left her breathless.
His arm snaked around her waist, fingers tracing patterns on her skin that sent electric shocks racing up her spine. The sensation was scorching, unforgettable.
“Slower,” Isabella gasped, her breathing ragged as her hands explored the sharp angles of his torso, fingertips meeting the unyielding hardness beneath.
He was all fire and steel, breathtaking in every way—yet devoid of tenderness.
But Alexander wasn’t listening.
His movements were primal, urgent, like a predator finally cornering its prey. Moments ago, they had been locked in a standoff, weapons aimed at each other’s hearts. Now, they were tangled in a dangerous rhythm, driven by something far more consuming than hatred.
“Don’t move.”
His voice was rough, commanding, filling the air between them. His breaths came in short, ragged bursts—enough to make anyone’s pulse race.
But Isabella wasn’t just anyone.
She never took orders well.
With a swift motion, she twisted in his grip, reversing their positions. Control was never something she surrendered.
Alexander hit the table with a thud, a groan escaping his lips as his eyes flew open. The usual ice in his gaze had melted into something far more disorienting—confusion.
Now straddling him, Isabella brushed a strand of hair from her flushed face, her expression one of unshakable confidence. Her chest rose and fell with exertion, but her eyes—sharp, defiant—never left his.
“I’ll be in charge.”
Her fingers trailed from his throat down the sculpted planes of his torso, tracing every ridge of muscle beneath her touch, each one as hard and defined as marble.
Alexander’s face was half-shadowed, but his body was a masterpiece—lean, powerful, a perfect V-shaped testament to strength.
They were both using each other. Yet in this moment, it didn’t feel like a loss.
She leaned in, capturing his lips again, her hands working methodically to undo the buttons of his shirt. Impatience flared, and she abandoned finesse, tearing the fabric open to press her palms against the heat of his chest.
Alexander, always the one in control, had never been outmaneuvered like this.
Yet he didn’t resist.
His hands tightened on her waist, as if he could fuse her to him.
Her silhouette was etched against the dim light like an artist’s muse, every movement driving them deeper into chaos.
Isabella tilted her head, her lips brushing from his neck to his cheek before lingering near those dark, mesmerizing eyes.
The rest of the night dissolved into fragments—a whirlwind of desire, passion, and reckless abandon.
At one fleeting moment of clarity, all she could focus on was the starlight dancing in her vision.
“What are you doing?” His voice was rough, strained.
“The drugs haven’t worn off yet.”
“Are you serious? What kind of animal—stop biting me! Not there, you idiot!”
The night spiraled on, a tempest of hunger and fire.
When dawn finally broke, Isabella stirred, something hard digging into her side. Groggily, she reached out—her fingers closed around the cold metal of a gun.
A dagger lay inches from Alexander’s waist, its presence a silent witness to the danger that had shadowed them all night.
She forced herself upright, her gaze drifting to the ornate ceiling, struggling to focus. Her thoughts spun like a broken record, unable to latch onto anything solid.
The room was dim, barely illuminated by slivers of light slipping through heavy curtains. It looked like a battlefield.
Beside her, Alexander still slept, his sculpted back rising and falling with steady breaths.
Isabella’s head throbbed, her body aching in ways she hadn’t known possible. She stood, her toes sinking into the plush carpet as she leaned against the couch for support. Her legs trembled, weak from the aftermath of what could only be described as a war between their bodies.
Chaos surrounded them—a shattered vase, scattered petals, overturned chairs, and the remnants of their reckless passion strewn across the floor.
She blinked, reality crashing over her like ice water.
This hadn’t been a fever dream. It had been real.
“He’s a damn savage,” she muttered, not needing a mirror to see the evidence. Bruises, bite marks, and angry red welts painted her skin in violent shades of purple and crimson. Even her thighs bore the marks of last night’s ferocity.
“Where the hell did he come from?” she wondered aloud, briefly entertaining the absurd thought of smothering him with a pillow—just to see if she could get away with it.
Alexander, still under the drug’s influence, lay motionless, his face buried in the pillow. His back was a canvas of red scratches—proof of the night they’d shared.
