Chapter 3 SIGNED IN SKIN

The elevator hummed as it ascended, a slow rise through glass and gold. Isabella stood with her arms crossed over her chest, trying not to glance at the man beside her.

Grayson Langford didn't just command space-he owned it. He hadn't spoken since the limousine ride from the gala, but the silence was louder than words.

He was furious.

She could feel it in the clench of his jaw. The tension in his shoulders. The way he refused to meet her eyes.

And she was furious too.

Furious that she felt anything other than hatred for the man who had just used her to make a point to a ballroom full of sharks.

The elevator dinged softly.

Penthouse.

Grayson stepped out without a word. The hallway was all shadow and chrome, lit only by blue LEDs tracing the walls. His suite door opened with a fingerprint scan, the locks hissing like something out of a sci-fi thriller.

She hesitated in the threshold.

"You coming in?" he asked, voice low and sharp.

She squared her shoulders and followed.

The door closed behind her like a seal.

The penthouse was breathtaking. All steel and glass, the entire city laid out below like a glittering sea. A private pool shimmered beyond a sliding glass wall. The furnishings were minimalist, brutalist-cold, modern, intimidating.

Like him.

Grayson poured two fingers of whiskey and turned to face her, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"What was that at the gala?" she said before he could speak. "You used me. You knew what putting your hands on me in front of them would do."

He took a sip. "You looked like you needed saving."

"I didn't ask to be saved."

He set the glass down with a soft clink. "Then maybe I needed to save myself."

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

Grayson crossed the room, his footsteps slow, deliberate. "It means every move I make has a consequence. Every touch. Every look. When I kissed you tonight, I declared war."

Her heart skipped.

"You kissed me to provoke your father?"

"No." He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel the heat of his body. "I kissed you because I wanted to. Because I couldn't stop myself."

He reached up and undid the first button of her dress.

She didn't stop him.

"You looked like a queen," he murmured. "Every man in that room wanted you. I saw it. I felt it. And I realized... I don't like sharing."

Another button slipped free.

"Then don't share," she whispered.

His eyes flared.

And then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was rough, desperate, full of unsaid things. His hands tangled in her hair, her arms circled his neck. She didn't know whether she was trying to pull him closer or push him away, but either way-she was losing.

He lifted her easily, carried her across the room, and laid her down on a velvet chaise like she was made of something breakable.

"Take it off," he said, voice hoarse.

She pulled the gown over her head slowly, exposing bare skin and flushed curves, the cool air sending shivers across her body. No lingerie. No barriers.

His eyes devoured her.

Grayson removed his tux jacket, then his shirt, revealing muscle carved like a statue, tattoos inked in black and gold across his ribs and shoulder. Not just wealth. Not just power.

Danger.

He sank to his knees between her thighs, his hands skimming up her legs, parting them.

"I want to taste what they all wanted," he murmured. "But only I get to have."

She moaned as his tongue found her, slow and firm, teasing her open. He devoured her like a man starving, one hand gripping her thigh, the other pinned against her hip. The city lights framed him in shadow and silver.

She came with a cry, thighs shaking around his head.

He didn't stop.

A second wave crashed into her-harder, more violent, more consuming.

Only then did he rise, mouth glistening, pupils blown wide.

"You're mine now," he said.

She didn't argue.

Grayson lifted her again, carrying her to the bedroom-if it could even be called that. The walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, the bed massive and covered in black silk.

He laid her down gently. Then undressed the rest of the way.

She bit her lip.

He was huge. Every inch of him oozed power and hunger.

He slid on a condom with practiced ease, then moved over her, his body fitting perfectly against hers.

When he entered her, they both gasped.

He filled her completely, slowly, like he was claiming every inch.

Their rhythm built-harder, faster, deeper. Sweat slicked their skin. Moans echoed off glass and stone.

Isabella dug her nails into his back, needing him closer, harder, rougher.

He growled low in her ear. "Say it."

"Say what?"

"That you're mine."

She hesitated.

He slowed, teasing.

"Say it," he murmured, thrusting deep.

"I'm yours," she gasped. "Yours."

He kissed her throat, her chest, her mouth.

And they shattered together.

They lay tangled afterward, the city lights casting soft glows across their bodies.

Grayson propped himself up on one elbow, brushing hair from her face.

"I need to know something," he said.

She blinked up at him. "What?"

"Why are you here, really? You're not just a maid."

She tensed.

"No," she admitted. "But I didn't come for this."

He studied her face. "Then what did you come for?"

She hesitated.

"My mother died a year ago," she said finally. "And she left me... nothing. Just a hotel name and a warning: don't trust the Langfords."

His brow furrowed. "Your mother knew my family?"

"I think she worked for them. I think something happened."

Grayson's jaw tightened. "What was her name?"

"Maria DeLuca."

Silence.

He stared at her.

"What?" she asked.

He slowly sat up, reaching for his phone.

Typed something. Waited.

Then read something on screen that made his expression darken.

"What is it?" she asked, heart pounding.

He turned the screen to her.

An old photo. A brunette woman-gorgeous, elegant, fierce. Standing beside...

"Your father?" she breathed.

Maximilian Langford.

"Yes," Grayson said grimly. "Your mother was his mistress."

Her breath left her.

"And she left suddenly. Disappeared without a trace. I remember the fight. My father was obsessed. Said she stole something."

Isabella shook her head. "She never said. She just... moved us from hotel to hotel. She was always running."

Grayson's voice dropped. "And now her daughter ends up working for the Langfords, in the hotel she once lived in?"

She stood, wrapping the bedsheet around her. "I didn't know. I swear."

Grayson stepped toward her, expression unreadable.

"Then maybe this isn't coincidence," he murmured. "Maybe this is fate."

The air between them changed-electric, uncertain.

She opened her mouth to speak-

But the penthouse intercom buzzed.

Grayson froze.

The voice came through, distorted but clear.

"Mr. Langford. Your father is on his way up. He's demanding a meeting."

Grayson's eyes flicked to Isabella.

"Get dressed," he said.

She didn't move.

"Now."

Because war was coming.

And she was at the center of it.