The boardroom of Thorne International was a tomb of glass and steel, perched so high above the city that the clouds felt like peers. Roman sat at the head of the obsidian table, his large frame making the executive chair look like a throne.
Around him, three vice presidents were droning on about quarterly acquisitions, their voices a dull buzz against his ringing ears.
He was restless. A dark, jagged energy always simmered beneath Roman's skin, a product of a life spent fighting for every inch of his empire. He was aggressive by nature, protective by instinct, and currently, his instincts were screaming. He had left Adam with Claire- the girl had a sterling resume and a soft voice, but Roman didn't like leaving his son with anyone. His phone vibrated on the polished surface. He didn't recognize the number.
Normally, he'd ignore it, but a sharp spike of adrenaline hit his gut. He held up a single hand, and the room went dead silent.
"Thorne," he snapped.
"Mr. Thorne? My name is Violet. I have your son."
The world tilted. The air in the boardroom turned to ice. Roman didn't just stand; he surged upward, his chair hitting the wall with a heavy thud. The executives recoiled as his face transformed into a mask of lethal intent.
"How much do you want?" he growled, his voice a low, terrifying vibration that promised violence. "If you've touched a hair on his head, there isn't a corner of this earth where you'll be safe."
The woman on the other end didn't flinch. In fact, she sounded annoyed. "Oh, please, put your checkbook back in your silk pajamas, Mr. Thorne."
By the time she finished her sassy retort about the nanny and The Gilded Lily, Roman was already out the door, moving with the terrifying speed of a predator.
The black Maybach didn't so much drive as it tore through the city streets. Roman sat in the back, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He was imagining a hundred different ways to dismantle the nanny, but his mind kept snagging on the voice of the woman on the phone. Violet. She had sounded… sharp. Fearless.
When the car pulled up a block away from the nightclub due to a delivery truck blocking the narrow street, Roman didn't wait. He threw the door open and stepped out into the cool night air.
He was halfway down the sidewalk, his hand already reaching into his jacket for the holster he rarely had to use, when he heard it.
It wasn't a scream. It wasn't the thumping bass of a typical club. It was a sound so pure, so impossibly clear, that it seemed to filter through the very brick and mortar of the buildings. Roman stopped. His boots, which usually moved with a heavy, purposeful stomp, went still.
"They say love only exists in the movies..."
The voice drifted through the night air like a ribbon of smoke. It was angelic- warm, velvety, and laced with a soulfulness that made the hair on Roman's arms stand up. For a man whose soul was a jagged landscape of aggression and dark shadows, the sound was like a cool hand on a fevered brow.
"But I know that's not true..."
Roman took a ragged breath. The violence that had been boiling in his blood since the phone call began to settle, replaced by a magnetic, irresistible pull. He moved toward the sound, no longer running, but drawn in by a tether he couldn't see.
He shoved past the heavy oak doors of The Gilded Lily, prepared to demand his son. Instead, he was struck dumb.
The club was bathed in a hazy, violet light, but his eyes went straight to the stage. There she was.
Roman had seen beautiful women; he had dated models and heiresses who spent fortunes on their appearance. But he had never seen a woman who looked like she had been crafted from starlight and sin.
She was draped in a floor-length gown of midnight-blue silk. The fabric was thin, clinging to every curve of her body like a second skin.
From his vantage point, he could see the soft, generous swell of her hips and the way the dress nipped in at a waist so tiny it looked like he could wrap his large hands entirely around it.
Her hair was a shimmering waterfall of pale blonde, cascading down her back until it brushed the swell of her backside. And her face- Roman felt a physical ache in his chest. She had a smile that felt like a benediction, and eyes the color of a summer sky, currently fixed on the small boy sitting at the edge of the stage.
Adam.
Roman's son wasn't crying. He wasn't scared. He was looking at Violet with absolute adoration.
Roman felt a switch flip inside him. It was instantaneous. It was the feeling of a man who had spent his life in a dark room suddenly being blinded by a searchlight. He didn't just want to thank her; he wanted to claim her. He wanted to wrap his coat around those curves and carry her away from the prying eyes of the high-society leeches filling the room.
He walked toward the stage, his presence parting the crowd like a blade. When the song ended and the room erupted, Roman felt a surge of possessive rage. All these men were looking at her. All these men were hearing that voice.
He stepped up as she called Adam over. When she handed the boy to him, their eyes met for the first time. Up close, her beauty was even more devastating. She was soft where he was hard, light where he was dark.
"I've got you, Ace," Roman murmured to his son, though he couldn't take his eyes off Violet.
Then, a man approached. Arthur. Roman recognized the type- a man who thought a heavy wallet compensated for a weak character. Arthur began to flirt, his eyes roaming over Violet's body in a way that made Roman's vision go red.
He felt an odd, stabbing heat in his gut. Jealousy. It was irrational. He didn't know this woman. He had known her for exactly three minutes, yet the urge to reach out, grab Arthur by his velvet lapels, and toss him through the front window was nearly overwhelming.
But then Violet spoke.
"I don't date the fans," she said, her voice dripping with a delicious, sharp sass that made Roman want to growl with approval. She handled the man with a graceful ruthlessness, shutting him down before turning those blue eyes back to Roman.
"Well," she said, leaning down to ruffle Adam's hair. "It looks like your ride is here, little man."
Roman found his voice, though it sounded like it was being dragged over gravel. "The nanny has been dealt with. Permanently."
He looked at her, his protective nature flaring. He wanted to tell her to go put on a sweater. He wanted to tell her she was too beautiful for a place like this. But mostly, he just wanted to hear her say his name again.
"Thank you," he said, the words feeling foreign and heavy. "For taking care of him. For calling me."
"You're welcome, Roman," she replied.
As he turned to leave, holding Adam tightly against his chest, Roman felt the weight of her gaze on his back. He was a man of action, a man who took what he wanted. And as he stepped out into the night, the image of Violet Noir- blonde hair, blue eyes, and that lethal silk dress, was burned into his mind.
He had come for his son. But as he looked back one last time, Roman knew he'd be coming back for the angel.