The penthouse was too quiet. It was a glass box suspended forty floors above the city, filled with minimalist furniture that cost more than most people made in a decade, and it felt like a tomb.
Julian Vane stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his reflection ghosting against the backdrop of the city lights. He reached up, his fingers trembling as he touched the silk tie still draped around his neck. It was wrinkled where she had grabbed him. He could still feel the phantom heat of her cigarette an inch from his eye, the raw, jagged threat of her voice echoing in his skull.
"Vicious," he whispered to the glass.
His heart was doing something it hadn't done in years. It was racing. Not from the rush of a closed deal or the high of a successful manipulation. This was different. It was a violent, pulsing electricity that made his skin feel too tight for his body.
He didn't recognize the feeling. Julian didn't do feelings; he did objectives. He did acquisitions. But Alina wasn't an acquisition. She was a goddamn wrecking ball.
He turned away from the window, pacing the length of the polished hardwood floor. He felt mad. Not angry. Mad. A frantic, manic thrill was singing in his blood. He remembered the look in her eyes, the total lack of fear, the pure, unadulterated hatred. It was the most honest thing he had ever seen.
Silas wanted to pet her. Silas wanted to give her a warm bed and a quiet life. What a waste. What a fucking tragedy to take a creature that sounded like a thunderstorm and try to turn her into a housewife.
"He doesn't see it," Julian muttered, his voice cracking in the empty room. "He sees the girl. He doesn't see the fire."
He went to the bar and poured a drink, his hands shaking so hard the crystal clinked against the bottle. He swallowed the liquid in one go, but it didn't dull the edge. Nothing could. He wanted to go back. He wanted to park outside that shitty apartment again just to see if she'd come back out and threaten to kill him. He wanted to feel that razor-blade whisper against his skin one more time.
But then, the thrill curdled.
The logical part of his brain, the part that had made him a millionaire by the age of thirty, clawed its way back to the surface. He looked at his bruised wrist, the mark where he'd gripped her so hard. A wave of cold, sharp humiliation washed over him.
He was Julian Vane. He didn't get 'electrified' by twenty-one-year-old waitresses who smelled like cheap cigarettes and desperation. He didn't let 'nightmares' grab him by the tie.
"She tried to humiliate me," he told the empty room, his voice hardening. "She thinks she's dangerous? She thinks she can threaten me?"
He slammed the glass down on the marble counter, watching it shatter. The shards skittered across the floor like diamonds.
He wasn't falling for her. That was impossible. He didn't fall. He decided, right then and there, that what he was feeling wasn't fascination or lust or the terrifying realization that he'd found his match. It was a need for revenge.
Pure, simple, and cold.
She had bared her teeth at him. She had tried to scare him off. Now, he would show her what a real monster looked like. He would take everything she had left. He would break her, and then he would break Silas for even thinking he was worthy of her fire.
"You want a nightmare, Alina?" Julian whispered, looking down at the shattered glass. "I'll give you one you can't wake up from."