The penthouse was silent, the board members having fled like rats from a sinking ship. Outside, the city lights flickered through a sudden thunderstorm, casting long, jagged shadows across the obsidian floor.
Drake didn't let go. His hand remained clamped around Alisha's jaw, his fingers tracing the line of her throat. The possessiveness in his gaze was suffocating—a dark, heavy weight that demanded she acknowledge the shift in their world.
"You think you're the one holding the knife, Alisha?" Drake's voice was a low, dangerous rumble. He backed her against the floor-to-ceiling glass, the cold of the storm-front seeping through the pane. "But I've been watching you for two years. I knew about the Miller workshop.I knew who you were the day you walked into my office with that letter opener."
Alisha's breath hitched. The blade in her sleeve felt heavy, but for the first time, she didn't reach for it. "You knew?"
"I wanted to see how long it would take for you to strike," he whispered, leaning in until their foreheads touched. His scent—expensive tobacco and cold rain—wrapped around her like a cage. "I wanted to see if you had the stomach to kill the man who ruined your father.But you didn't. You fell in love with the monster instead."
"I don't love you," she spat, though her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard it was a physical ache. "I want to own you. I want to be the reason you lose everything."
"Then own me," Drake growled. He took her hand—the one still trembling with adrenaline—and pressed it against his chest, right over his heart. "Take the company. Take the blood money Silas is hiding. But you don't get to leave.You're my most lethal asset, and I don't let go of what's mine."
The moment was shattered by the shrill scream of the building's alarm. The lights flickered and died, plunging the office into a bruised, violet darkness.
"He's cut the power," Alisha whispered, her training kicking back in. She reached into her garter and pulled out a sleek, matte-black dagger. "Silas isn't running. He's hunting."
Drake didn't look toward the door. He looked only at her. He reached behind his desk and pulled out a heavy, silver-plated handgun, checking the chamber with a lethal efficiency that proved he was more than just a man in a suit.
"Let him come," Drake said, his eyes glowing with a terrifying, vengeful light. "He thinks he's the architect of my pain? He's about to find out that I've mastered the craft. And this time, I have someone to protect."
He grabbed Alisha's waist, pulling her flush against him one last time before the hunt began. The kiss was brief—violent, desperate, and tasting of iron and salt. It wasn't a promise of a happy ending; it was a vow of mutual destruction.
"If we die tonight," Alisha murmured against his lips, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
"We don't die," Drake interrupted, his voice absolute. "We win. And then I'm going to make you tell me exactly how you want to ruin me."
The doors at the end of the hall were kicked open. The heavy thud of tacticalboots echoed through the marble hallway. Silas hadn't just called security; he had hired mercenaries.
Drake clicked the safety off. Alisha flipped her knife, the steel catching a stray bolt of lightning from outside.
"Back to back, Miller," Drake commanded.
"Always, Wright," she replied.
The darkness erupted into chaos.