HATE ME HARDER ( a dark revenge romance)

CHAPTER 1

RAVEN'S POV:

The silencer coughs once, a soft, almost child-like, like a suppressed sneeze in a quiet library, and the mark drops like a sack of wet cement, his body folding in on itself with an undignified thud.

His cheek smacks against the cold marble floor of his penthouse kitchen, the impact echoing slightly in the vast, open space, and blood starts pooling immediately, dark and viscous, spreading out in lazy, irregular fingers under the harsh, unforgiving glow of the pendant lights hanging like judgmental chandeliers above the island counter.

The river view through the floor to ceiling glass windows mocks the entire scene, Manhattan's skyline glittering indifferently in the distance, a million twinkling lights that seem to say, "Another life snuffed out in this city? Who gives a damn?" I step over him without a second glance, my boot narrowly avoiding the edge of the stain as it creeps toward the grout lines.

It is done, lingering on the dead is a luxury I can't afford, it's the living who pay the bills, and tonight's payout will keep me afloat for months.

I wipe the dagger on the hem of his silk robe Armani, by the feel of the smooth, expensive fabric, probably costing more than what most people make in a month and slide it back into the thigh holster strapped securely under my leather romper.

The material clings to me like a second skin, black and molded to every curve and muscle I've honed over years of this brutal life. It's practical for jobs like this, flexible enough for quick movements, tight enough to conceal the tools of my trade without restricting a sudden draw or twist.

The romper's zipper runs low, exposing just enough cleavage to distract if needed, but tonight it's all about efficiency, not seduction.

The knives at my waist shift with each deliberate step I take two slim throwing blades, balanced perfectly for a mid-air spin that could pin a fly to a wall from twenty feet, and one serrated beast for when things get up close and messy, the kind that tears flesh more than it slices clean.

They click faintly against my hips, a rhythmic, almost comforting reminder that I'm always armed, always ready. In this line of work, hesitation isn't just a mistake, it's death's open invitation, and I've danced with that bastard too many times to let him lead.

Placing a call across to my boss to inform him of a successful mission,i stepped out from the room.

No alarms blare through the building's speakers. No security team comes rushing in with guns drawn, I made sure of that earlier, the doorman downstairs took a fat envelope of crisp hundreds to develop a sudden case of selective blindness.

He didn't even blink when I slipped past him in the lobby, just nodded like we were old acquaintances sharing a dirty little secret. Money talks louder than loyalty in this city, especially when it's stacked high enough to bury your morals under a pile of green.

I've learned that the hard way, over too many nights like this one, where the line between right and wrong blurs into nothing but survival. The rich think they own everything.

I ghost through the service corridor, hood pulled up low over my face to shadow my features, boots silent on the scuffed concrete floor that smells faintly of bleach and forgotten garbage.

The air here is cooler, heavier, a stark contrast to the polished luxury of the penthouse above, where everything was pristine and sterile until I painted it red.

Elevator dings softly as I hit the button, doors sliding open with a mechanical hiss that always reminds me of a snake uncoiling. I step in, punch the basement level, and lean against the mirrored wall, watching the numbers tick down like a countdown to freedom.

My reflection stares back from the panels, pale skin flushed slightly from the adrenaline, eyes shadowed and empty under the harsh fluorescent buzz, lips pressed into a thin, determined line.

I look like what I am, a ghost in the machine of this ruthless world, slipping through cracks no one else bothers to notice, a woman who's learned to turn her emptiness into a weapon.

Down in the basement garage, rows of gleaming Bentleys and Porsches sit like sleeping beasts under dim, yellowish overhead lights that cast long, eerie shadows.

The air's thick with the faint tang of exhaust fumes and motor oil, a mechanical scent that clings to my clothes as I weave between the vehicles, keeping low to avoid any stray cameras. I hit the side exit, pushing through a heavy metal door that groans in protest, and step out into the alley.

My Honda parked two blocks away on a dimly lit side street, no custom rims or flashy decals, no license plates that scream "look at me." It's the kind of car that blends into traffic like a chameleon, forgettable in a city full of distractions.

That's how you stay alive as an assassin, become invisible, disappear into the noise, leave no trace except the cooling body upstairs and the echo of a silenced kill.

Outside, the rain comes down in relentless sheets, cold and sharp like a thousand tiny needles pricking my skin through the leather. The town at night is a beast on its own, it doesn't care if you're triumphant after a kill or shattered from a bad memory, it just keeps pounding away, indifferent to the blood on your hands or the hollow ache in your chest that never quite fills.

I melted into the alley shadows between towering brick buildings graffiti-ed with faded tags and peeling posters, heart rate holding steady. Always steady after a clean kill.

It's like my body's got its own internal ledger, tallying up the souls without asking if I want to keep count.

The rain slicks the pavement, turning it into a mirror that reflects distorted city lights, red from stop signs, yellow from streetlamps, blue from distant sirens.

The sound of it pattering against trash cans and fire escapes creates a white noise that drowns out the distant hum of traffic, making the world feel smaller, more isolated.

Ten years. Ten fucking years since that godforsaken hotel suite bathroom, and the memory still claws its way into my dreams, waking me gasping for air like I'm drowning in my own sweat. The tile was ice cold against my bare back, the kind of chill that seeps deep into your bones and lingers long after the bruises fade.

His breath was hot and heavy with champagne, reeking of entitlement and excess, pressing down on me like a weight I couldn't shove off no matter how hard I fought.

I said "no" over and over, the word turning into muffled screams against his palm clamped tight over my mouth, his fingers digging into my cheeks like vices.

The rip of my dress echoed in my ears, fabric giving way easily, as if my body was just another thing to be torn apart for his convenience. He grunted through it all, low and animalistic, like it was nothing to him, like I was nothing more than a convenient outlet for whatever rage or lust boiled inside him that night.

The pain was sharp, invading, a violation that went beyond flesh, it shattered something inside me, left me hollow.

Then blackness swallowed me whole, merciful in its way.

I woke up alone on that same tile, thighs sticky with blood and his cum,my body aching in places I didn't know could hurt so profoundly, my stomach already churning with the seed of what would become Lila, a life forced into existence from that single act of cruelty.

I didn't report it. Who would believe a nobody like me, a nineteen-year-old waitress scraping by on tips, against a rising star like Damien Blackwood, heir to a fortune and already making waves in the business world? The cops would've laughed, or worse, blamed me for being in that hotel party in the first place.

So I buried it deep, let it fester into hatred, and rebuilt myself from the fragments.

Gave birth in a dingy free clinic under a fake name, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of angry bees, the doctor's hands cold as he placed her in my arms. I held her tiny, wrinkled fist in mine and made a vow right there, sweat still drying on my forehead from the labor.

She'd never know that kind of pain.

I'd kill anyone who tried to inflict it on her.

I'd become the monster if it meant keeping her safe, turning my emptiness into armor, my fear into fuel for the life I lead now.

Lila, my daughter, she's my anchor in this endless storm of emptiness, the one thing that tugs at the void inside me and makes it feel a little less infinite, a little more bearable.

Those storm-gray eyes, his eyes, damn it to hell, staring up at me most mornings over a bowl of cereal, full of innocence and questions I dodge with half smiles and quick distractions.

She thinks I'm a "travel consultant," always jetting off for mysterious meetings in far flung cities.

She doesn't know the late nights are spent with a gun in hand, the bruises hidden under long sleeves come from close calls with targets who fight back harder than expected, or that the stacks of cash tucked away in the safe are stained with other people's blood, earned from contracts that would make her nightmares pale in comparison.

She plays piano like it's pure magic, her little fingers dancing over the keys in our cramped Brooklyn apartment, filling the air with notes that almost, almost make me forget the ugliness of it all.

I listen from the hallway sometimes, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed, my throat tight with something I won't name because emotions like that are weaknesses in my world.

Tears are for people who still have hearts that beat for more than just survival, for people who haven't learned that love is a liability when you're living on the edge.

The offshore account just ticked up another six figures from this job.

Enough to cover her private school tuition for the year, the therapy sessions she doesn't know are for the "nightmares" I must have passed down through my genes, maybe even a bigger place someday where she can have a room with a view that doesn't overlook garbage-strewn alleys and shouting neighbors.

Enough to keep us running, keep us hidden from the past that always feels like it's one step behind.

I duck into O'Malley's, a grimy dive bar three blocks from the hit. The door creaks as I push through, the interior hitting me with a wave of stale beer, cigarette smoke clinging to the walls despite the smoking bans, and the low hum of muted conversations from patrons who look as worn and battered as the barstools they've claimed.

Neon signs buzz like angry wasps overhead, "Budweiser," "Open Late," flickering red and blue across scarred wooden tables etched with initials from years gone by.

The place smells like regret and cheap liquor, the kind of spot where dreams go to die slow.

I slide onto a stool at the end of the bar, away from the cluster of drunks nursing their pints and sharing slurred stories.

"Whiskey neat," I mutter to the bartender, a grizzled guy with tattoos snaking up his arms like vines and eyes that see too much but say absolutely nothing.

He pours without a word, slides the glass over with a nod. I knock it back in one go, the burn racing down my throat like liquid fire, chasing away the lingering ghost of Damien's cologne from my mind sandalwood mixed with leather and raw power, the scent that still turns my stomach after all this time, triggering flashes of that night every time it hits me unexpectedly.

Damien Blackwood. Twenty nine now, the same age as me, but living in a world so far removed from mine it might as well be another planet.

CEO of Blackwood Enterprises, a sprawling empire of high-rise real estate developments, cutting-edge tech startups, and whatever else he sinks his ruthless claws into to turn a profit.

The society pages paint him as the elusive bachelor, the visionary tycoon who turns failing companies into gold mines overnight with a single signature. "Ruthless negotiator," they call him, like it's a badge of honor, a compliment for how he crushes rivals without a second thought.

I call him the monster who shattered me into pieces and left me to rebuild alone, the reason I traded my old life, a waitress scraping by on tips and dreams of something better, for one where I load a gun one handed in the dark, where I strip for cash in seedy clubs to blend in as "just another girl," where I sell my body when the assassin gigs dry up because survival doesn't come cheap and pride is a luxury for the living.

Does he remember that night? Or is it just a blurry, drunken haze in his polished existence, one more wild party among hundreds, a conquest he forgot by morning light, filed away as a youthful indiscretion? I hope it's blurry.

I hope it nags at him in quiet moments, a shadow in the corner of his mind that makes him wake up sweating, wondering why he feels that vague, unsettled unease.

Not enough to piece it together, not yet.

I want to be the one who forces the puzzle into place, who makes him confront the girl he broke and the life he created in the process.

I want him to look into my eyes and see the emptiness he carved out, staring back with a vengeance.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, Lila's school calling. I answer quickly, my voice dropping to that soft, protective tone I reserve only for her, the one that feels foreign in my mouth after a night like this.

"Mom?" Her voice is small, sweet, cutting through the bar's noise like a lifeline thrown into choppy waters.

"Hey, baby. Is everything okay?" I keep my tone light, but my grip on the phone tightens, knuckles whitening.

"Yeah. Just missed you. When are you coming home?" There's a hint of whine in her words, the kind that tugs at the remnants of my heart.

"Soon. I promise. Practice that piano piece for me, okay? The one with the fast fingers?"

"Okay. Love you, Mom."

"Love you more, kiddo."

The line goes dead, and the emptiness crashes back in, colder than the rain drumming against the bar's window.

I toss cash on the counter, too much, but who cares tonight? I got up and pushed out into the storm.

Water soaks through the leather as I walk fast toward the subway entrance, heading home, the pavement slick and reflective under my boots, mind already shifting gears from killer to avenger.

Damien's face from the news reel earlier tonight, smirking at some high-society gala, arm casually around some socialite who doesn't know the devil she's dancing with. Untouchable, they say. Not for long.

Eclipse, his private club downtown.

High-roller event tomorrow night.

Exclusive crowd, escorts and dancers on the menu, auctioned off for "private entertainment" to the highest bidder.

I've worked spots like that before under aliases, wig, colored contacts, face half masked in shadow like I do for kills to keep my identity buried.

They won't recognize me. I'll sign up as a last-minute addition, let the bids climb higher and higher, let him win the night with me if his ego demands it.

Then, when we're alone in whatever lavish penthouse suite he drags me to, when his hands start wandering like they own everything in sight, I'll draw the knife from my waist.

Press it to his throat with steady pressure. Make him relive every brutal second of that bathroom tile, the cold, the pain, the violation.

Make him beg for mercy he doesn't deserve, his voice breaking as the memories flood back.

And when the fear finally shatters that cold, mean mask of his, when his ruthless facade cracks wide open, I'll decide,Let him live long enough to learn about his daughter, to feel the weight of what he created and abandoned in one thoughtless act?

Let him grapple with the guilt that should have haunted him all these years?

Or end it there, watching the light fade from those storm gray eyes that mirror Lila's, knowing I took back what he stole from me ten years ago?

I smile into the rain, small, sharp, the first real spark of life I've felt in years, cutting through the numbness like one of my blades.

Tomorrow, Damien.

Tomorrow, I start collecting what's owed.

Game fucking on.

CHAPTER 2:

RAVEN'S POV:

The mirror in my apartment bathroom is cracked in the top left corner, been that way since I moved in three years ago, I never bothered fixing it because it matches the rest of me.

I stare at my reflection under the harsh bulb light, face half shadowed already, and feel the emptiness settle like an old habit.

Tonight's not about beauty only, it's about bait. About becoming the kind of woman Damien Blackwood can't resist bidding on.

I start with the foundation, heavy, matte, the kind that turns my skin into porcelain armor.

Concealer over the faint scar on my left cheekbone from a knife fight two years back, barely noticeable, but I don't take chances.

Then the eyes, smoky black liner winged sharp enough to cut, lashes extended with falsies that make them look predatory.

Contacts, deep hazel tonight, not my natural gray. They change the whole face, make me someone else. Someone he won't recognize until it's too late.

The wig came next, long, glossy black waves cascading past my shoulders, bangs swept to one side to partially veil the upper half of my face.

It's not just a disguise, it's the distance. When I dance, when I let men look, I never show all of me.

The mask is literal tonight, thin black lace that covers from nose to forehead, leaving only my mouth and chin exposed.

It looks like high end fetish wear, but it's practical, hides bone structure, hides the hate that must be leaking from my eyes.

Outfit selection is strategic. I pull the black corset top from the back of the closet boned, laced tight in front, plunging low enough to draw eyes downward and away from my face.

Paired with a high waisted feathered skirt that hugged my hips and ass like paint, with hidden compartments for a slim blade and a mini taser and for shoes, I went for the black pointy heels.

The romper from last night stays in the laundry, tonight calls for something more performative, more vulnerable on the surface.

I strap the garter belt with extra sheaths and two throwing knives on each thigh, concealed under the skirt's hem. The weight feels reassuring, grounding.

I practiced the walk in front of the full length mirror on the bedroom door, hips swaying slowly and deliberately, shoulders back, chin lifted just enough to look arrogant instead of scared.

The heels click against the hardwood like gunshots. I roll my neck, loosen my jaw, force a sultry smile that doesn't reach my eyes. Mirror me looks dangerous, desirable, untouchable.

Good. That's the illusion I need him to buy.

Lila's asleep in the next room. I slip in quietly, stand over her bed for a minute.

She's curled on her side, stuffed bear clutched under her chin, breathing soft and even.

Moonlight from the cracked blinds paints silver stripes across her face, those damn gray eyes closed now, lashes fanned on her cheeks.

I brush a strand of hair off her forehead, light as I can. She stirs but doesn't wake.

"I love you," I whisper, the words tasting foreign after a night of blood. "I'll be home before you know it."

I close her door softly, grab my clutch burner phone, fake ID, small vial of sedative just in case and head out.

The subway ride downtown is a blur of flickers and strangers avoiding eye contact.

I keep my head down, hood up, but inside my mind is racing through contingencies.

If he doesn't bid, I pivot to plan B, slip into his private office during the afterparty, knife to throat in the dark. If he does bid, I let him think he's won.

Let him get close. Then remind him what happens when you take without asking.

**********************************

Eclipse looms at the end of a discreet side street in the Meatpacking District, black facade, no sign, just a single red light above a steel door guarded by two bouncers built like refrigerators.

I flash the fake ID and the invite code I bought off a contact earlier. One of them scans it, nods, opens the door.

Bass hits me like a physical force, deep and throbbing, vibrating through my bones.

Inside, the club is a cave of velvet and sin.

Dim red and purple lighting, crystal chandeliers dripping low over leather booths, mirrors everywhere reflecting bodies in motion.

The stage is central, circular, with poles that gleam under spotlights.

Women and a few men move on it in various states of nakedness, bodies glistening with oil or sweat, eyes distant or hungry.

Tables ring the stage, filled with men in suits who look like money and women who look like they know how to spend it. The air is thick with expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the metallic tang of arousal.

I make my way to the back, where the "talent" entrance is. A woman in a headset manager, probably looks me up and down, nods approvingly.

"You're the last-minute addition? Raven Noir?"

"That's me."

"Private dance auction starts in twenty.

You're lot seven. Get changed if you need to, then wait in the green room.

Bids start at ten grand. Don't disappoint."

She hands me a numbered paddle 07 and disappears into the crowd.

The green room is a narrow space behind the stage mirrors, makeup stations, racks of lingerie and costumes, girls touching up lipstick or adjusting straps.

Some chat, some stare blankly at phones, some stretch like cats.

I find an empty stool, sit, cross my legs, and wait. My pulse is steady, but there's a low hum under my skin anticipation, not fear.

I've faced worse than a rich man with a hard on.

The music shifts, slower now, sultrier. A voice comes over the speakers smooth, male, practiced.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Eclipse's exclusive midnight auction. Tonight's selection is exquisite, each performer available for one private hour. Bidding starts at ten thousand dollars. Remember, what happens in Eclipse stays in Eclipse."

Lot one goes first, a blonde in red lace who moves like liquid fire. Bids climb fast, fifteen, twenty, thirty. Sold for forty-two grand to a man in the front row with a Rolex that could buy a house.

I watch through the curtain gap, cataloging faces. No Damien yet. My stomach tightens, not nerves, just hunger. I want him here, watching, wanting.

Lot two, three, four each one hotter, bids higher. By lot six, the energy in the room is electric, thick with money and lust.

Then the voice announces, "Lot seven, Raven Noir."

The curtain parts.

Spotlights blind me for a second.

I step out onto the stage, heels clicking, hips rolling slow.

The music drops to a deep, pulsing beat, something dark and sensual, bass vibrating up my spine.

I grip the pole, swing around once, letting the wig cascade, letting the lace mask catch the light.

I don't look at the crowd yet. I feel them, eyes on my body, on the way the cloth hangs to my body, on the way my thighs flex as I drop low, rise slow, back arched.

Then I look.

He's there.

Front row center, black suit tailored to perfection, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the collar just enough to show tanned skin.

Damien Blackwood. Older than the memory, sharper, colder. His face is all angles, high cheekbones, jaw like carved

stone, mouth set in a line that could be boredom or hunger. Storm-gray eyes locked on me, unblinking.

My breath catches, not fear, not yet. Something else. Recognition. Rage. And underneath it, a flicker I hate, the way his gaze drags over me like he already owns the hour.

Like he knows exactly what he wants to do with it.

I spin the pole again, slower this time, letting my legs open just enough to tease.

The mask hides my expression, but my mouth curves, small, dangerous.

The bidding starts.

"Ten thousand."

"Fifteen."

"Twenty."

Voices overlap, numbers climbing fast. Damien doesn't speak yet.

He just watches, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.

"Thirty."

"Forty."

"Fifty."

Still nothing from him.

My stomach twists.

What if he doesn't bid? What if I have to pivot, sneak into his office later?

Then his voice cuts through the noise low, calm, commanding.

"One hundred thousand."

The room goes quiet for a heartbeat.

The auctioneer recovers. "One hundred thousand from the gentleman in front. Do I hear one ten?"

Silence.

"Sold! To Mr. Blackwood for one hundred thousand dollars."

Applause ripples. I stepped off the stage, heart pounding not from the money, but from the look in his eyes when he said my stage name. Like he was tasting it. Like he recognized something he couldn't place.

A handler escorts me through a side door, down a dim hallway lined with private rooms.

We stop at number 12. The door opens. Damien's already inside, standing by the floor to ceiling window overlooking the club floor, back to me.

The door clicks shut behind me.

We're alone.

He turns slowly.

Those gray eyes meet mine through the lace mask.

And for the first time in ten years, the emptiness inside me cracks just a hairline fracture.

But it's enough.

I feel it.

The hate surges, hot and alive.

He steps closer.

"Take off the mask," he says, voice low, commanding.

I smile behind the lace.

"Not yet."

His jaw tightens.

"You think you set the rules here?"

I tilt my head, let the wig fall over one shoulder.

"Tonight? Yes."

He closes the distance in two strides, stops inches away.

I can smell him, sandalwood, leather, power. The same scent that still haunts me.

His hand lifts, fingers brushing the edge of the mask.

I don't flinch.

But my pulse spikes.

And in that second, with his breath on my face and his eyes boring into mine, I knew, this isn't just revenge anymore.

It's something worse.

CHAPTER 3

RAVEN'S POV

His fingers hover at the edge of the lace, so close I can feel the heat from his skin brushing mine like a threat.

The room is a cocoon of dim red light filtering through heavy velvet curtains, the bass from the club below thrumming up through the floor like a distant heartbeat.

Private suite 12 smells of leather and bourbon, his bourbon, the kind that's aged in barrels worth more than my rent.

The window behind him overlooks the writhing bodies on the dance floor, but up here, it's just us, predator and prey, though he's got it all wrong about who's who.

"Not yet," I repeat, my voice a low purr laced with steel.

I tilt my head just enough to let the wig's waves shift, obscuring more of my face.

My hand moves, slow, deliberate, brushing his away like I'm indulging him, like this is still a game he paid for.

But under the skirt, my fingers itch toward the sheath on my thigh.

One quick draw, and I could have the blade at his carotid before he blinks those damn storm gray eyes.

Damien's mouth quirks, not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, the kind a wolf gives before it lunges.

"Feisty. I like that." His voice is velvet over gravel, the same timbre that echoed in my nightmares, grunting and commanding in that hotel bathroom.

He steps even closer, crowding me against the door, his body a wall of tailored muscle and entitlement. 6'5 ft, easy broad shoulders that block out the light.

I remember how they felt pinning me down, unyielding.

The scent hits harder now sandalwood and leather, twisting my gut with a cocktail of hate and something sharper, unwanted, that coils low in my belly.

He reaches again, insistent, fingers hooking under the lace. "I paid for the full show, Raven. Mask off."

I let him pull it halfway, just enough to expose one eye, my gray one, hidden behind the hazel contact, but close enough to risk it.

His breath catches, a micro-falter in that iron composure.

Does he see it? The flicker of familiarity in the shape of my jaw, the curve of my lip? No. Not yet.

His memories are blurry, he said once in an interview I stalked online, youthful indiscretions, blackouts from too much champagne. But I remember every detail, every tear in the fabric, every bruise.

Before he can tug it fully free, I move. My hand snaps up, gripping his wrist in a vise that's all assassin training, pressure on the radial nerve, just enough to make his fingers loosen without screaming pain. Yet.

"You paid for an hour," I say, leaning in so my lips brush his ear, breath hot. "But I decide the pace. Touch without asking again, and the show's over."

He doesn't pull back. If anything, he presses closer, his free hand sliding to my waist, fingers splaying possessively over the corset. "Bold. Most girls here fold like cheap cards." His eyes search mine through the half-mask, probing. "But you... you're different. Like I've seen you before."

My heart stutters, sixty-eight beats spiking to eighty. Recognition? Already? No, can't be.

The wig, the makeup, the contacts, it's a fortress. But that "something worse" from earlier surges, a dark undercurrent that makes my skin hum where he touches.

Hate, yes. But laced with a twisted pull, the way a flame draws the moth even as it burns.

Ten years of fantasizing about this moment knife in his gut, twisting slow, and now, with him this close, the emptiness cracks wider, letting in flashes of what could be: not just death, but destruction.

Make him want me, need me, then shatter him from the inside.

I release his wrist, trail my fingers down his arm instead, turning the power play. "Maybe in your dreams," I murmur, voice dripping honeyed venom. "Or your nightmares."

He chuckles, low and dark, but his eyes narrow, intrigued, not amused. "Nightmares? Darling, I make them for others."

His hand tightens on my waist, pulling me flush against him.

I feel the hard lines of his body, the evidence of his interest pressing insistent. It should repulse me, trigger the bile from that night. Instead, it fuels the fire, a tool to wield. I arch into it just enough to tease, my thigh brushing his, the hidden knife a secret thrill.

"Then let's make this memorable," I say, and before he can respond, I spin us, quick pivot on the heel, using his momentum against him.

He stumbles back a step, surprised, ass hitting the edge of the leather chaise.

I straddle him in one fluid motion, knees pinning his thighs, hands on his shoulders.

The mask stays half-on, shadows playing games with my features. "You like control, Mr. Blackwood? Try letting go."

His hands roam up my sides, bold now, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the corset. "Call me Damien." It's a command, but there's a hitch in it, curiosity, desire. He tugs at the lace again, gentler this time. "Show me your face."

I grind down once, slow roll of hips that draws a sharp inhale from him. Distraction. "Earn it." My mind races, plan shifting on the fly. Kill him now? Easy. Blade out, throat slit, gone before security checks. But torture... that's slower. Make him suffer, draw it out. And something in his eyes, that stormy gray mirroring Lila's, tugs at the void. What if I burrow deeper? Infiltrate his world, become indispensable, then rip it apart.

He flips us suddenly, strength I remember all too well, pinning me to the chaise with his weight.

Breath hot on my neck. "I always earn what I want." His lips graze my collarbone, teeth nipping just enough to sting.

The "something worse" ignites, hate twisting into a dark heat that makes me arch involuntarily. Fuck. This wasn't the plan.

But then his phone buzzes in his pocket, insistent vibration against my thigh.

He ignores it at first, mouth trailing lower, but it doesn't stop. With a curse, he pulls back, fishes it out. Glances at the screen, expression shifting from hunger to cold calculation.

"Business?" I ask, voice steady, using the moment to readjust the mask fully.

"Always." He stands, adjusting his tie, but his eyes linger on me. "This isn't over, Raven. I want more than an hour."

I sit up slow, crossing my legs like a queen on her throne. "Everything has a price."

He smirks, tapping something on his phone. "Name it. But first, work for me. Exclusive, no more auctions. I need someone like you, sharp, fearless. My world eats the weak."

The offer hangs there, a lifeline or a noose. Recruit me? Perfect. Get closer, learn his weaknesses, strike when he's vulnerable. And that dark pull... I can use it, weaponize it.

"Exclusive?" I echo, standing, hips swaying as I close the distance again. "What's the job?"

Discreet tasks. You move like you know how to handle yourself." His eyes rake over me, appraising. "And I like having beautiful weapons at my side."

I let a smile curve my lips, small and sharp. "Deal. But on my terms, no unmasking until I say."

He nods, once, sealing it. "For now." Then he turns to the door, but pauses. "Meet me tomorrow. Blackwood Tower, penthouse office. 10 AM. Don't be late."

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in the red lit silence. My pulse thunders, not from fear, but from the widening fracture.

This game just got longer, deadlier. I'll play his recruit, let him think he's winning. Maybe he'll fall for me. Then, when the time's right, the knife.

But as I slip out the back exit, melting into the night, a new shadow creeps in. Something about his offer feels like fate's cruel joke.