The following night, the air in The Gilded Lily was thick with anticipation, the kind of heavy, electric atmosphere that usually preceded a storm. Violet stood behind the velvet curtain, adjusting the bodice of her dress. It was a floor-length, deep red silk that looked like spilled wine under the stage lights. It clung to her curves like a second skin, flaring out slightly at her ankles, and featured a daring slit that revealed a glimpse of her pale leg with every step. She looked like a siren, a woman who could lure ships to their doom, but inside, her heart was a frantic bird fluttering against the cage of her ribs.
She performed her set with a desperate kind of intensity. Her voice was raw, hitting notes that vibrated through the floorboards and made the ice in the patrons' glasses rattle. She didn't look at the center booth. She didn't look at the shadows. She simply sang until her throat ached, pouring every ounce of her frustration, her confusion, and her burgeoning desire for a certain dark-haired titan into the lyrics.
When the final chord faded, she didn't linger for the applause. She ducked backstage, her heels clicking rapidly against the concrete as she made a beeline for her private dressing room. She needed a drink of water, a moment of silence, and to get out of this dress that made her feel far too much like the "cookie" Adam had described.
She pushed open the door to her dressing room and froze.
Ryder Vane was draped across her velvet chaise lounge as if he owned the building. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a glass of her expensive bourbon in his hand.
"That last high note," Ryder purred, standing up with a fluid, predatory grace. "I felt that in my teeth, Violet. You really are wasted in this dump."
"Get out, Ryder," Violet said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "I'm not in the mood for the 'benefactor' routine tonight. You're trespassing, and I have a very large, very grumpy bouncer who would love to show you the sidewalk."
Ryder didn't flinch. He moved toward her, his chocolate-brown eyes dark with a bold, reckless hunger. Before she could sidestep him, he reached out, his hand clamping firmly around her upper arm. "You're a firecracker, aren't you? I like that. Thorne probably likes it too, but he's too stiff to know what to do with it. He wants to put you in a museum. I want to put you in my bed."
He pulled her closer, his other hand sliding down to her waist, his grip tightening. He smelled of salt and arrogance. "Come on, Violet. One night. One flight to the coast. You'll forget all about the him and his rules. I can give you things he won't even let you dream about."
Violet felt a surge of pure, unadulterated disgust. This wasn't flirting; it was a siege. She felt the silk of her red dress bunching under his fingers, and something inside her snapped. She wasn't a prize. She wasn't a songbird. And she certainly wasn't his.
"I said," Violet hissed, her knee coming up with a vicious, practiced speed, "GET. OUT."
She didn't hit him in the groin- she wanted him mobile enough to move. Instead, she jammed her heel into his instep and used her forearm to shove him back with a strength born of pure rage. Ryder stumbled, his eyes widening in shock.
"You're finished, Ryder!" she shouted, grabbing him by the collar of his expensive shirt and hauling him toward the back service entrance of the dressing room- a heavy steel door that led directly to the alleyway. "I am not joining you! I am never joining you! I wouldn't join you if you were the last man on this dying planet!"
She threw her weight against the door, the cool night air rushing in as she shoved a stunned, sputtering Ryder Vane out onto the damp pavement of the alley.
"Stay away from me! And stay out of my life!" she yelled, her chest heaving, her blonde hair falling in wild tangles over her shoulders.
But as the door swung wide, the words died in her throat.
Standing in the center of the alleyway, illuminated by the harsh, flickering yellow light of a streetlamp, was Roman.
He was leaning against his black SUV, his arms crossed. He looked like an avenging deity. His face was devoid of all color, his eyes two chips of frozen blue fire. He had clearly been waiting for her set to end, waiting to escort her home, and instead, he had watched his rival get ejected from her private quarters like common trash.
Violet's gaze met Roman's. The silence in the alleyway was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the city and Ryder's heavy breathing as he tried to regain his dignity.
Under her breath, so low only the bricks could hear, Violet whispered, "Ouu buddy... you're in trouble now."
Roman didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The aggressive, lethal energy that had been simmering beneath his skin for days finally boiled over. He moved with a speed that was terrifying for a man of his size. One moment he was by the car; the next, he was in Ryder's personal space.
Ryder scrambled to his feet, trying to summon his usual bravado. "Thorne! Look, I was just-"
Roman's fist cut him off. It wasn't a calculated move; it was a raw, heavy strike that sent Ryder spiraling back against a stack of wooden pallets.
"Roman, no!" Violet cried out, but she didn't move yet. Part of her- the dark, primal part, wanted to see the dragon tear the scavenger apart.
Roman didn't stop. He hauled Ryder up by the shirt, his face inches from the blonde man's. "I told you what would happen if you touched her," Roman roared, his voice echoing off the brick walls like a cannon blast. "I told you to stay out of my woods!"
He threw Ryder to the ground and began to pummel him- short, brutal, efficient strikes that spoke of a man who had spent years suppressing a very violent nature. Ryder tried to cover his face, groaning as Roman's knuckles made sickening contact with bone and sinew.
Roman was a blur of charcoal wool and white-hot rage. He wasn't thinking about business or contracts or technicalities anymore. He was thinking about the way Ryder's hand had looked on Violet's red silk.
"Roman! Stop! You'll kill him!" Violet finally lunged forward, throwing her arms around Roman's waist and pulling back with everything she had.
Roman was like a wall of solid muscle. He didn't budge at first, his arm pulled back for another strike, his chest heaving with a feral rhythm. Violet buried her face in the small of his back, her voice cracking. "Roman, please! He's not worth it! Don't do this! Think about Adam!"
The mention of his son's name acted like a douse of cold water. Roman's arm froze in mid-air. He stood there for a long, agonizing second, his breath coming in ragged gasps, before he slowly lowered his hand.
He looked down at Ryder, who was curled in a ball on the wet concrete, bleeding from a split lip and a broken nose, his expensive linen suit ruined by alleyway filth.
Roman turned in Violet's arms, his eyes still wild, his pupils blown wide. He looked at her- really looked at her, and the rage was slowly replaced by a dark, shimmering possessivity that made her knees tremble.
Violet didn't wait for him to speak. She stepped around him and signaled to the club's bouncer, who had poked his head out the back door to see what the commotion was.
"There's someone beat up in the alleyway," she said, her voice shaking but authoritative. "Call an ambulance if you have to, just get him away from here."
She turned back to Roman, her face pale against the deep red of her dress. She reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his suit jacket, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric. "We're leaving. Now."
She pulled him toward the SUV, her movements frantic. Roman followed her, his steps heavy, his gaze never leaving her. He looked like a man who had just walked through fire and was still burning.
As they reached the car, Roman's driver opened the door. Violet shoved Roman inside, not caring about the rules or the hierarchy. She climbed in after him, slamming the door shut and cutting off the sounds of the alley.
The interior of the car was silent, save for the sound of Roman's labored breathing and the scent of blood, iron, and the sandalwood cologne she had come to associate with safety. Violet sat as far away from him as the seat allowed, her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes fixed on the floorboards. She was upset- at Ryder for the assault, at Roman for the violence, and at herself for the way her heart was still hammering with a dark, forbidden thrill.
The car pulled away into the night, leaving the chaos behind, but as the streetlights flickered over Roman's bruised knuckles, Violet knew that the battle for her soul had only just begun.