A PRICE OF OBSESSION

The rooftop club's bass thrummed its way down Amara's spine as a second heartbeat-speedier, crazier, and far more reckless than the first. She shouldn't have come. She'd had a morning meeting at the gallery, and her shoes were killing her like damnation. But she was here now, sipping something amber and potent, dressed in a blood-red satin dress that clung to her like sin, and being leered at by men who kept secrets better than suits.

"Another drink, Miss Leighton?"

She turned to the bartender-a slim brunette with a pierced lip and a knowing smile.

"No, thanks. I'm not here to drown anything tonight."

She was lying. She was always drowning something. Regret. Guilt. Desire.

Especially tonight.

Her eyes cut through the group-taut bodies, loose ethics. New York's aristocracy, disguising themselves incognito in black tie and silk masks. Invitation-only. You weren't allowed in unless you wielded power, wealth, or a name murmured behind hands.

Amara had none of those anymore.

But she did possess an assumed name, a phony invitation, and a body men loved to sin with. That sufficed.

Your mask is slipping," a soft voice spoke behind her, and her heart tripped over itself.

She turned around.

And lost her breath.

He stood somewhat to the side from the rest of the group. Black from head to toe. No tie. A half-mask fashioned in matte obsidian covered the upper half of his face, showing only a jaw carved like temptation and lips that could rewrite scripture.

His presence attacked her like smoke-sluggish, dense, deadly. There was something about him that screamed restraint. Controlled menace. A man who broke rules by existing. But it was his voice-deep, gravelly-that slipped beneath her skin like bourbon-saturated silk.

"Maybe I like being noticed," she shot back, cold in the face of the flame now raging under her dress.

His eyes, guarded behind masked obscurity, searched her as if memorizing the color of her flesh against the strobe lights. "Perhaps I don't."

"What do you like?" she asked, tilting her head. Playing with danger was her one vice.

"One night," he replied bluntly. "No names. No histories. Just need."

Her throat was dry. No man ever approached her so plainly-so neatly with desire. Most men faked. Promised. Created issues.

This one did not.

"I don't usually do this," she breathed, even as her body deceived her in a creeping step forward.

He did the same-graceful, panther-quick. "Neither do I."

Another lie. She knew it. He probably did this every night. Tonight, however, so would she.

He held out a gloved hand. She did not hesitate, then inserted her hand into his. The shock was instantaneous-static and flame colliding beneath skin.

"I have a suite on the top floor," he said to her. "Or we can get this done in a messier location."

A challenge.

She blinked. "I like clean sheets."

A slow, evil smile. "I like watching them get destroyed."

---

The suite was a glass cathedral of darkness. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a skyline dense with light, and a king-sized bed built for destruction.

He closed the door behind them, and in that click, Amara felt something change. Reality blurred. Her heartbeat was a drum of wild expectation.

He spoke not as he removed his gloves, each movement calculated. Her breath caught as he approached, not touching, merely regarding. She felt him in her bones, flesh made of gravity.

"Take off the dress," he instructed.

Not a request.

A command.

She hesitated-but for a moment. Then she leaned forward, slid the straps off her shoulders, and allowed the satin to fall like a sigh to her ankles.

His breath hitched.

Below, she wore nothing but a midnight-colored lace thong. Her nipples pushing against the chill, and his gaze devoured her.

He did not approach.

He moved around her-slow, stalking prey he didn't wish to devour too quickly. "Turn around."

She did.

Fingers stroked against her back. Traced the line of her spine. Down to the crease of her hips. She felt each touch like a prayer.

"Your're real," he whispered. "Too fucking real."

And then his hands were on her-hot, hard, desperate. He spun her around, kissed her like she was property, and she dissolved into him, into the insanity.

The mask remained in place.

His tongue danced against hers, probing, taking control, before he bit her lip-hard enough to make her gasp.

Clothing stripped off in strips. Her thong ripped. His shirt took off. She saw tattoos on his chest-lines, symbols, maybe a name-but he pushed her onto the bed before she could demand to know.

And when he entered her, there was no gentleness.

No sweetness.

Only need. Black. Unyielding. True.

He fucked like a starving man. Possessive. Strong.

And she accepted it like a woman who had not been touched in years.

He gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, deeper, pulling moans from her that didn't sound like hers. The headboard slammed. Sheets tangled. Her nails carved his back. She didn't know where he ended and she began.

"Say you're mine," he growled into her neck.

"No names, remember?" she panted, even as her hips chased him like fire.

"I don't need your name," he whispered, biting her shoulder. "Just your surrender."

And in that moment, she gave it.

Her orgasm washed over her like a wave of lightning and heat, and when he followed, gasping her name-or someone's name-it didn't matter.

Because for those few minutes, she was his.

And he was hers.

---

She woke up alone.

The sheets were chilled. Her body ached in all the right places. On the pillow beside her, coiled like a secret, lay a diamond pendant in the shape of a teardrop.

And no card.

She stared at it, pulse thudding.

Who loses diamonds after a one-night stand?

Amara picked it up, heart racing. There was something written on the back.

A date.

Not the one for today. But one from so very long ago.

She swallowed.

The past she'd thought she'd buried just rattled at her door again.

And it was hidden.

Amara stood in front of her bathroom mirror, the diamond pendant penduluming between her fingers like a ghost she couldn't shake. The engraved date-March 13, 2018-glaared back at her as if mocking her for believing last night had been just sex.

Because that date? That date had past.

That date was the night everything changed.

She pressed the pendant into her palm, its serrated edge biting her skin. No man ought to've known it. No stranger ought to've left it behind.

Yet here it lay, resting on silk sheets, gleaming with the kind of precision that screamed intent.

Last night had not been an accident. He had known. He had meant.

The knock on her door startled her so much she let go of the necklace. It landed on the tiled floor, delicate but unbroken-like her. Like she was trying to be.

She slipped on a robe and made her way to the door. Probably her friend Zara phoning to touch base. Perhaps room service with her usual croissant and black coffee.

But door open, her breath caught.

It was him.

Black suit. No mask. Same storm-gray eyes that had stripped her bare with a glance and caused her to cry out his name behind silk-draped walls.

Only now there was no anonymity. Just a man with a face so dangerously beautiful it was almost cruel.

"You left something behind," he said, holding up a black lace thong between two fingers. "Or perhaps I kept it as a memento."

Amara's heart thudded into her throat. "How did you find me?"

A slow smile. "You really think I didn't know who you were last night?"

She retreated. "You said no names. No past."

"I lied."

She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him. Instead, she settled for crossing her arms. "Who are you?"

He came in without invitation. Like he owned the place. Like he owned her. "Lucien Wolfe."

The name hit her like a cold splash of water. Wolfe Industries. Tech mogul. Oil tycoon. The man who turned bankrupt businesses into gold with a single investment.

And the man her father attempted-and failed-to destroy.

"You're lying," she whispered.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Google me. You'll find your daddy's name in the scandal section between insider trading and fraud."

Amara's jaw clenched. "What do you want from me?"

He dropped the thong onto her coffee table like an answer. His gaze then drifted over her robe, pausing on the way it opened around her thigh.

"I want another night."

"Why?"

"Because once wasn't enough. And because you owe me."

The words hurt more than she showed. "I don't owe you anything."

Lucien leaned in, close enough she could smell his cologne-smoky, musky, sinful. "Oh, sweetheart... your daddy's debts didn't die with him. They just passed down with your name."

Her heart rattled. He was bluffing. He had to be. "So this was revenge sex?"

"Not revenge. Just... the beginning."

And then he kissed her.

Hard. Possessive. Like a man who had to punish her mouth with pleasure. Her body betrayed her, melting into him, hungry for the danger he wore like a second skin.

He didn't ask permission. He ripped the robe open, exposing her naked flesh to the cool air and his scorching gaze.

"Still wet for me?" he growled, sinking a hand between her thighs.

She gasped, but didn't try to stop him. Couldn't. Not when his fingers zeroed in on her heat and stroked with maddening precision.

"You're dangerous," she panted, voice trembling.

Lucien smirked. "No, you're dangerous. You made me shatter every last rule I live by."

Then he lifted her up-just like that-and carried her over to the kitchen counter, sweeping everything out of the way with one arm before setting her down on the marble surface like a feast.

"No bed this time," he snarled into her neck. "I want you dirty. Urgent. Somewhere you'll remember every time you make coffee."

He fell to his knees between her legs without warning, and she screamed as his mouth took her center-hot, ruthless, worshipful. He devoured her like she was his last taste of sanity. Tongue whipping, teasing, catapulting her toward a peak she had no chance of controlling.

"Lucien-God-stop, I'm gonna-"

He didn't.

He pinned down her hips as she came apart, her screams echoing off the walls.

When he rose, mouth glistening, he was every bit the devil she'd fallen for too soon.

"You taste like lies and trouble," he snarled, grinding his length into her wetness.

"Then fuck me like you want the truth," she panted.

And he did.

He did not go gently-he plunged, hard and unfettered, eliciting a ragged moan from her lips. The marble was cold on her back, but his body burned, thrusting into her with a force that left her gasping and seeing stars.

"Tell me," he growled, each word punctuated by a thrust. "Tell me why you ran five years ago."

She shrieked. "What-"

"You disappeared. After the allegations. After the death."

Her nails dug into his back. "That wasn't me. That was my father's mess-"

He silenced her with a kiss, hips pumping harder. "Liar."

"I didn't know," she panted. "I didn't know he was stealing from yours."

Lucien stopped.

For a heartbeat.

Then his hands gripped her thighs harder, and he pumped again-slower now, deeper.

"That's the thing, Amara. I don't know if I want to forgive you-or destroy you."

She came again. Hard. Loudly. As if his threat was a drug her body couldn't resist.

He came with a groan that sounded like a war cry, slamming deep before collapsing onto her, breath hot against her ear.

---

Minutes passed. The air thick with sweat, regret, and something terrifyingly close to longing.

He pulled out slowly, helped her down gently, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

I want to have dinner with you. Tonight. At my place."

Amara's eyes widened. "You just fucked me on my kitchen counter and you're thinking dinner is the next order of business?"

"I believe obsession has odd cravings."

"And what if I say no?"

He moved back, adjusted his jacket, and smirked. "Then I'll come by here again. And next time, I won't invite you."

He walked away without another word.

And Amara stood there, robe gaping, heart racing, staring at the diamond pendant like it was a promise and a danger all in one.

Because Lucien Wolfe didn't want just her body.

He wanted everything.

And she didn't know if she was going to fall for him... or be destroyed by him.

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.