Chapter 3 The Devil's Dinner

The dress was armor-black velvet, thigh-high slit, backless, and obscenely tight. Every step Amara made felt like taking a step further into the enemy's territory... and she wore it like armor.

She stood before the mirror, gasping for breath as she traced the curve of her collarbone. Beneath the diamonds Lucien had sent was skin still warm from his caress. Her lips still tender from his kiss. Her thighs, bruised from the manner in which he'd taken her-like he'd wanted to leave his mark on every inch of her.

She should've told him no to this dinner.

But curiosity was a bad thing. And Lucien Wolfe... he wasn't just deadly-he was addictive.

Her phone buzzed.

Lucien: Driver's in the lobby. Hope you're dressed. And wet.

The audacity made her thighs contract.

She grabbed her clutch, pocketed the pendant he left on her kitchen counter and moved toward the elevator.

---

Lucien's penthouse was the kind of garish decadence that struck you in the face. Walls of glass and a view of the whole city, works of art that probably cost more than other people's lives, and silence so thick it screamed decadence.

He stood waiting for her by the floor-to-ceiling windows, glass of whiskey in one hand, tie loose, sleeves rolled up just so to tease the corded muscles of his forearms.

And that look in his eyes?

Predatory.

"Already pouring?" she asked, moving in.

"You're late. I was thinking of punishing you."

"I don't respond well to threats."

"Good. I don't make idle threats."

His eyes dropped to the slash in her dress. "That's the one I wanted you to wear."

"You were going to have me dress up for you?"

"I don't ask, Amara. I command."

She didn't flinch. "And I disobey."

A slow, sinister smile spread over his face. "Dinner first. Then you can test my patience to see how long it will last."

---

They sat across from one another at a candle-lit table laid out with the precision only a private chef and too much money could provide. Everything was perfection-the oysters, the risotto, the red wine that had been aged longer than most marriages.

But the tension between them? That was the real delicacy.

Lucien watched her like he could savor her thoughts. Every time she shifted in her seat, his gaze dropped to her thighs. Every sip of wine, he consumed as if it was her he swallowed.

She finally broke the silence. "So what is this really about? My father? Closure? Revenge with benefits?"

He inclined forward, a smile on his face. "I don't care about your father anymore. I'm not seeking closure. I'm here for you."

"Why?"

"Because you entered my club five years ago and tore me to pieces with a look. And then you left."

Her breast tightened. "It wasn't safe to stay."

"Safety?" He leaned forward. "You vanished that night. After yelling my name and telling me your secrets. No last name. No number. Vanished."

She gulped hard. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"Did you not?"

"I don't know."

He stood up. Moved toward her. Stopped right behind her chair.

"Liar."

He smoothed her hair over her shoulder and lowered his lips to her ear. "You dreamed of me. I know it. The way your thighs tightened last night? That wasn't new. That was familiar."

Her breath snagged.

"Stand up."

"What?"

"I said, stand up."

She did-pounding heart.

"Put your hands on the table."

"Lucien-"

"Now."

She placed her hands on the tablecloth, quivering.

He stepped back behind her, fingers tracing against her hips before nudging the top of her dress up.

"No panties," he breathed. "Good girl."

And then she felt it-the searing crack of his hand on her ass.

She gasped. The heat exploded at once.

Another crack.

"You don't get to walk into my life again without consequences," he snarled.

Another. Then his fingers slipped between her legs, teasing, stroking. "So wet. All this attitude, and your body still knows who owns it."

She moaned, forehead touching the table. "This is insane."

"This is inevitable."

He slid two fingers inside her, curling just right. "You're going to come like this. Standing. Hands on my table. My name on your lips."

It built fast-too fast. The shame, the haste, the power-it all set something primal free.

"Tell me," he growled.

"Lucien," she wailed. "Oh, God-Lucien."

Her orgasm tore through her like fire. And he didn't relent until she shook.

He kissed her shoulder once. Then rose.

"Now we negotiate."

Negotiate? After shattering her like that?

She turned slowly, legs having trouble staying upright. "You're insane."

"I'm obsessed," he told her.

He offered her a glass of water, carefree once more, as though he hadn't just touched her into nothingness.

"Tell me about the pendant."

Her blood turned ice-cold.

"What?"

"You clenched it too hard this morning. That date? March 13, 2018? That was the night your father was outed. The same night you disappeared. That pendant is connected to this."

She stalled.

He waited.

Finally, she inhaled. "It was of someone I trusted. Someone I thought I could love."

His jaw tightened. "Who?"

"Elliot Sinclair."

Lucien's eyes turned black. "The name rings a bell."

"He was my father's intern. My lover. And a mole in your company."

The silence was cutting.

"I did not know until it was too late. He used me to steal information. Then he disappeared, delivered the files to my father, and disappeared."

Lucien's voice was frost. "He's the reason your father got access to my personal servers."

Amara nodded. "He used us both."

Lucien leaned in, his fingers curling under her chin. "So you've been hurt before then."

"Yes."

"Used."

"Yes."

"And you're still standing?"

She swallowed. "Barely."

He kissed her. Gentle this time. Almost a revere.

"You're dangerous, Amara. Not because you're broken. But because you survived."

She didn't cry often. But in that moment, she needed to. A little bit.

Instead, she moved in with him.

Lucien swept her up-this time, he took her to the bedroom.

No urgency. No rage. Only flames and desire and something perilously on the edge of intimacy.

He laid her on the bed, stripped her slowly, gorged on every contour of her flesh.

And when he entered her once more, it wasn't vengeance.

It was obsession.

Sheer. Dark. Addictive.

---

Later, as the city glowed under the glass walls and her body pulsed with contentment, Amara reclined in his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Lucien sketched lazy designs on her thigh. "We're not done."

"I know."

He caught her gaze with a look over at the nightstand where the pendant lay. "I'm going to find Elliot."

Her breath hitched again.

"And when I do," he growled, voice low and menacing, "he's going to pay for what he did to you."

Not us. To you.

And in that twisted, blistering, scary moment, Amara realized something.

Lucien Wolfe did not desire to own her.

He desired to slaughter anyone who ever hurt her.

And that was a different type of power all together.