Chapter 3 3

Imogene tried to stand, but a tug at her waist stopped her. Kenan's hand had found the hem of her uniform jacket in his sleep. His fingers were tangled in the fabric, a death grip that refused to yield.

She sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. She tried to pry his fingers loose, one by one. As soon as she lifted his index finger, his pinky clamped down harder. He made a sound of distress in his throat, his brow furrowing.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay, I'm not leaving."

She sat back down on the carpet. The floor was hard, and the cold seeped through her pants. She rested her head against the side of the sofa, near his hip. She watched the city lights flicker and die as the night wore on.

Sometime around 3:00 AM, the dynamic changed.

Kenan shifted. The fever was spiking again, a secondary reaction to the neural reset. He groaned, turning onto his side, facing her. His hand moved from her hem to her arm, pulling.

"Cold," he muttered.

Before Imogene could react, he hauled her up. She tumbled onto the sofa, landing awkwardly against his chest. He was a furnace, and he sought her coolness like a heat-seeking missile.

"Wait," Imogene gasped, trying to push against his chest. "Mr. Cervantes, wake up."

He didn't wake up. He operated on instinct. His arms locked around her, trapping her against him. His face buried itself in the crook of her neck. His lips were hot and dry.

He kissed the sensitive skin below her ear. Imogene froze. It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was desperate. It was a drowning man breathing air.

"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling.

He shifted, his mouth finding hers. The kiss was clumsy, heavy, and tasting of iron. Imogene's mind went blank. For a second, just a second, she stopped fighting. The sheer human need radiating from him was overwhelming. It called to the broken parts of her own soul.

Then, the reality crashed back in. If she was found like this-in the arms of Kenan Cervantes, the man Clair was trying to secure a merger with-she would be destroyed. Clair would spin it. Imogene would be the whore, the seductress, the stain on the family name.

She pushed him. Hard.

He groaned, rolling onto his back, his arm falling over his eyes. He didn't wake. The surge had passed.

Imogene scrambled off the sofa. She backed away, her chest heaving. She touched her lips. They felt bruised.

She looked at the window. The sky was turning a bruised purple. Dawn.

Panic set in. The morning staff would arrive soon. The chef. The personal assistants.

She looked down at herself. Her uniform was twisted. A button was missing from the front, likely torn off when he pulled her onto the sofa. She scanned the floor. The small black plastic disc was gone, swallowed by the deep pile of the carpet.

She didn't have time to find it.

She grabbed the silver tray. She picked up the knife from where it had fallen. She wiped the handle on her apron, erasing her prints. She placed it back on the tray.

She ran to the door. The red light on the panel had turned green. The system, detecting Kenan's vitals had stabilized into a deep sleep pattern, had disengaged the lockdown. A failsafe he must have programmed himself.

Imogene pushed the door open. She didn't look back. She took her shoes off, holding them in her hand to silence her footsteps. She sprinted down the hallway to the service elevator.

The ride down felt like a descent into hell.

When the doors opened in the basement, she bolted for the locker room. It was empty. She stripped off the uniform, her hands shaking so badly she nearly ripped the zipper. She shoved the clothes into the laundry bag, pushing them deep to the bottom.

She pulled on her own clothes-a gray hoodie that had seen better days and jeans with a hole in the knee. She splashed cold water on her face in the sink, scrubbing her lips until they were raw.

She looked in the mirror. There was a red mark on her neck. A hickey. Or a bruise.

"Stupid," she hissed at her reflection.

She pulled the hood up, cinching it tight. She slipped out the back door of the club just as the garbage trucks were rolling into the alley. The noise of the compactor covered the sound of her escape.

She walked fast, head down, blending into the gray morning. She was just another shadow in the city. But she knew, with a sinking feeling in her gut, that she had left something behind in that penthouse. And she wasn't talking about the button.