The gravel of the driveway had barely settled beneath the tires of the SUV when Violet stepped out, the cool evening air biting at her skin. The atmosphere of the estate had shifted. The silence wasn't the peaceful, heavy luxury she had grown accustomed to; it was the pressurized, vibrating quiet that precedes a lightning strike.
Tyson stood by the grand entrance, his posture more rigid than usual, his hand resting near his holster. His eyes scanned the tree line before landing on her. There was a grimness in his expression that made her pulse skip.
"He's in the office," Tyson said, his voice clipped. "He's been waiting for you."
"Is everything okay? Did something happen with the lawsuit?" Violet asked, her brow furrowing. She clutched the flash drive Silas had given her- the golden ticket to Roman's freedom from the Vane family, like it was a shield.
Tyson didn't answer directly. He knew the Prince had been there. He had seen the way Roman looked after the ivory-suited monster had left- like a man who was contemplating burning the city to the ground just to ensure the ashes covered his tracks. Tyson knew that Roman was a ticking time bomb of territorial rage, and he knew that Violet was the only person on the payroll who could walk into that blast zone and come out unscathed. She was the "off button," the only cooling rod for the nuclear reactor of Roman Thorne's temper.
"Just go up, Songbird," Tyson muttered, stepping aside. "And don't knock. Just go in."
Violet navigated the marble staircase with a growing sense of unease. The house felt haunted. She passed Adam's playroom and saw the doors were still locked from the outside, though she could hear the muffled sound of a cartoon playing within. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
When she reached the heavy double doors of Roman's office, she didn't hesitate. She pushed them open, the hinges silent.
The room was draped in shadows, the only light coming from the fiery orange of the sunset bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Roman was standing with his back to her, silhouetted against the dying light. He looked like a statue carved from obsidian. His jacket was gone, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his hands were braced on the window frame with such force that the wood groaned under his grip.
Violet didn't even get a chance to speak.
The moment her reflection flickered in the glass of the window, Roman moved. It wasn't a human movement; it was the blur of a predator closing in on its prize. Before she could gasp, he was across the room. His large, calloused hand slammed into the door beside her head, the wood vibrating with the impact as he shoved it shut.
With a sharp, metallic clack, he twisted the deadbolt, sealing them inside.
He didn't touch her immediately. He hovered over her, his massive frame boxing her in against the door. The heat radiating off him was staggering. He smelled of adrenaline, cold sweat, and a dark, simmering fury that made the air feel thin. His chest heaved with ragged, heavy breaths, and his blue eyes were blown wide, the pupils so dilated they swallowed the iris whole.
"Roman?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What happened? You're... you're shaking."
"He was here," Roman rasped, his voice a guttural growl that didn't sound like him at all. "He stood in this room. He looked at the chair you sit in. He spoke about my son. He spoke about you."
Violet's blood turned to ice. "Frankie? He came here?"
Roman didn't answer with words. He lunged forward, not with violence, but with a desperate, crushing need for proximity. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his nose dragging against her skin as he inhaled sharply. He breathed in the scent of her- strawberry shampoo and the fresh, crisp smell of rain that had clung to her coat.
She felt the tension in his jaw begin to fracture. He let out a long, shuddering groan against her skin, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. It was the sound of a man who had spent hours in a desert finally finding water.
"You're here," he muttered into her skin, his voice muffled. "You're real. You're still here."
He pulled her impossibly closer, his hands moving to her waist. They weren't the gentle hands of a caregiver or the professional hands of a boss. They were the hands of a man claiming a kingdom.
He gripped her waist with a terrifying possessiveness, his fingers sinking into the fabric of her emerald dress, pulling her hips flush against his.
There was no air between them, no room for doubt. He anchored her to him as if he were trying to pull her inside his own ribcage, to hide her away in a place where the sun- and the Prince, could never find her.
Violet's hands came up to his chest, her fingers splaying over the rapid, frantic drumming of his heart. She could feel the vibration of his growl through his breastbone. "Roman, I'm okay. Tyson kept me safe. Silas gave me the footage. It's over, the lawsuit is-"
"I don't care about the lawsuit!" Roman roared, though he didn't move his face from her neck. The sheer volume of his voice in the small space made her jump, but his grip on her only tightened, steadying her. "I don't care about the Vanes. I don't care about the money. He called you his wife, Violet. He sat in my house and claimed the woman who sleeps in my bed, the woman who raises my son, the woman who has my soul in her pocket... he called you his."
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes were burning with a dark, territorial jealousy that was almost physical. He looked at her features as if he were memorizing them for the last time, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a reverent, shaky touch.
"He thinks he can come into my territory and take what is mine," Roman hissed, his lips ghosting over her cheek, though he pointedly avoided her mouth. The restraint was a visible agony for him; she could see the way his muscles corded, the way his body fought against the urge to simply take what he wanted. He respected the paper she was bound by, but he hated it with a fervor that bordered on madness.
"I'm not his, Roman," she whispered, her own breath hitching as his hands slid around to the small of her back, arching her body into his. "I haven't been his since the second I jumped out of that car."
"You are mine," Roman corrected, his voice dropping into a possessive, jagged vow. "In every way that matters. You are the air in this house. You are the safety for my son. You are the only thing that makes me want to be a man instead of a monster. And I will burnevery throne in Europe to the ground before I let him lay a single finger on you again."
He shifted his weight, pinning her more firmly against the door, his large thighs bracketing hers. He was marking her, using his scent and his heat to overwrite the invisible stain Frankie had left on the room. He nuzzled into her hair, his hands moving up to cradle her head, his fingers tangling in the blonde silk. He held her with a fierce, desperate strength, a silent promise that he would be the shield between her and the world.
Violet felt a rush of heat and a strange, grounding sense of belonging. The "husband" was a ghost, a paper threat, but Roman Thorne was a reality. He was the weight of the world and the safety of the hearth all at once. Even as she felt the arousal of his proximity, the electric thrill of his hands on her skin, she felt a profound sense of peace.
He wasn't kissing her- he was honoring the boundary she hadn't even had to ask for, but he was claiming every other inch of her spirit.
"Stay," he whispered into her ear, the word more of a command than a request. "Don't go back to the guest wing. Don't go back to the playroom. Stay right here. In my sight. In my arms."
"I'm not going anywhere, you brute," she murmured, her hands sliding up to wrap around his neck, pulling him back down into the hollow of her shoulder.
They stood there in the dying light of the office, two people bound by a war they hadn't asked for, but finding a strange, violent kind of home in each other's shadows.
Roman didn't let go for a long time, his breath finally evening out, the dragon finally settling back into the dark, satisfied that his treasure was exactly where she belonged.
The Prince was in the city, the lawyers were at the door, but in this locked room, under the watchful gaze of a man who would kill for her, Violet- the girl with no name, finally felt like she was home.
"I have the footage, Roman," she whispered after a long silence. "The Vanes can't touch you anymore."
"Good," Roman replied, his voice a dark, cold promise as he finally pulled back to look her in the eye. "Because now, I don't have to be a businessman. I can just be the man who destroys Prince Frankie."