Chapter 3 TRAPPED DESIRE

I should have pushed him away.

Should have screamed.

Should have done anything except melt against him.

But Dominic Stone kissed like he did everything else-with absolute command and zero apology.

His hands fisted in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it. His body pinned mine to the wall, all hard muscle and expensive cologne and heat.

My fingers clutched his tuxedo jacket, holding on because if I didn't, I'd collapse.

His tongue swept into my mouth, demanding, claiming. I heard a whimper and realized it came from me.

Dominic's grip tightened. One hand left my hair, sliding down to my hip with possessive pressure.

"This is insane," I gasped when he let me breathe.

"Yes." His lips moved to my jaw, my throat. "Tell me to stop."

"Stop."

He didn't stop.

His mouth found that sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder, and my knees buckled. Dominic caught me, pressing me more firmly against the wall, his thigh sliding between mine.

"Dominic-"

"Say it like you mean it." His teeth grazed my pulse point. "Tell me you don't want this."

My head fell back, giving him better access.

"I-"

His hand slid higher, fingers skimming the curve of my breast through the thin fabric.

I arched into the touch.

"That's what I thought." His voice was rough, triumphant. He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. "You want this as much as I do."

The words cut through the haze.

I shoved at his chest. "Get off me."

He stepped back immediately, hands raised. But his eyes-God, his eyes were molten.

"This can't happen," I said, trying to ignore the way my body screamed in protest.

"Agreed."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Dominic straightened his jacket. "This was a mistake."

"A mistake? That's what you're calling assault?"

His eyes flashed. "Don't. I stopped the second you told me to. If you want to pretend you weren't kissing me back, fine. But don't lie about consent."

He was right. I hated that he was right.

"Why did you stop the elevator?"

"Because I couldn't-" He bit off the words. Ran a hand through his hair. "Because you slapped me, and I should have been angry. Should have walked away. But all I could think about was doing this."

"That's not an excuse."

"I know." He moved to the control panel, pressed a button. The elevator hummed back to life. "Believe me, I know."

We stood in tense silence as the elevator descended. My lips still tingled. My heart still raced.

"When these doors open," Dominic said quietly, "we're going to walk out and pretend this never happened."

"Fine."

"You're going to be my stepsister."

"I'm aware."

"And this-" He gestured between us. "-ends now."

"Perfect."

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open.

I stepped out without looking back.

I made it three steps before a hand caught my wrist.

"Wait."

I turned. Dominic still held me, his grip gentle but firm.

"I'm not sorry," he said.

"You just said it was a mistake."

"It was. But I'm not sorry."

He released me and walked away.

I stood alone in the empty corridor, my entire world tilted sideways.

I needed to leave. Needed to find Mom, make excuses, get out.

Instead, I found myself wandering.

The mansion was a maze. I climbed stairs without counting, following some instinct I couldn't name.

Music drifted through an open door.

Not the string quartet. Something heavier.

I hesitated, then pushed the door wider.

The room beyond was chaos. Canvases everywhere. Paint splattered the floor. And in the center, a man stood before an easel, brush moving in quick, violent strokes.

Asher.

He didn't notice me. His focus was absolute.

I should have left.

But I couldn't look away.

He painted with his whole body. Every stroke was deliberate, powerful.

I took a step closer.

And froze.

The painting.

It was me.

Not a perfect reproduction. Something more abstract, dreamlike. But unmistakably me-the curve of my jaw, the shape of my eyes, the way my hair fell.

"How long are you going to stand there?"

I jumped. Asher still hadn't turned around.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."

"And yet, here you are." He added another stroke. "Come closer."

My feet moved before my brain could object. I stopped beside him.

"When did you-" I couldn't finish.

"The coffee shop. Three weeks ago." Now he did turn.

Up close, Asher was devastating in a completely different way than his brothers. Where Julian was charming and Dominic was commanding, Asher was raw. Intense. He looked at me like he could see straight through skin and bone.

"You've been following me?"

"No. I went for coffee. Saw you. Couldn't stop thinking about you." His gaze dropped to the painting. "Couldn't stop seeing you."

"That's-"

"Creepy? Yeah. I'm getting that a lot today."

Despite everything, I almost smiled. "Does that line work on many women?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never tried it before." He set down his brush. "You're Maya. Claire's daughter."

"And you're Asher. My soon-to-be stepbrother."

Something flickered in his expression. "Right. That."

"You didn't know?"

"Not until tonight. I don't pay much attention to Father's personal life." He moved closer, studying me like I was another painting. "You look different than in the coffee shop."

"It's the three-thousand-dollar dress."

"No. You look scared."

My throat tightened. "I'm not-"

"Don't." His hand came up, hovering near my face but not quite touching. "Don't lie. Not to me."

"Why would I tell you the truth?"

"Because I knew your father."

The world stopped.

"What?"

His hand dropped. "David Laurent. Brilliant businessman. Terrible judge of character. He trusted the wrong people, and it destroyed him."

"He died in a car accident."

"Is that what your mother told you?"

Ice flooded my veins. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying your father's death wasn't an accident. And the man responsible is the same man threatening my family now."

"You're lying."

"Am I?" He turned, pulling out a drawer. Withdrew a folder. "This is everything I've gathered over the past three years. Your father was investigating corporate fraud when he died. He got too close to the truth."

My hands shook as I took the folder. Inside were photocopies, news clippings, financial statements.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you deserve to know." His voice was gentle. "And because I think you're strong enough to handle it."

My vision blurred. The folder slipped from my fingers, papers scattering.

"Hey." Asher caught my arms. "Breathe. Just breathe."

But I couldn't breathe. My father-my kind, brilliant father-murdered?

"I can't-" A sob tore from my throat.

Asher pulled me against his chest.

And I shattered.

I cried for my father. For my mother's lies. For the life I'd thought I understood.

Asher held me through it all, one hand stroking my hair, the other firm on my back. He didn't offer platitudes. He just held me.

When the storm finally passed, I pulled back, wiping my eyes.

"Sorry. I just-"

"Don't apologize."

I looked up at him. His face was inches from mine. Paint smudged on his jaw, exhaustion in the lines around his eyes.

"Why do you care?" I whispered.

"Because someone should have cared about your father. Someone should have protected him." His thumb brushed my cheek, catching a stray tear. "And because the moment I saw you, I knew you were going to change everything."

The air between us shifted.

I knew I should step away.

Instead, I rose on my toes and kissed him.