Colette stumbled down the hallway, the plush Persian rug doing little to cushion her bare, bleeding feet. Rick's agonized howls from the billiard room were a terrifying soundtrack to her escape.
At the far end of the corridor, an elevator dinged. The doors slid open, and two housekeepers pushing a large linen cart stepped out, their backs to her.
They were an accidental shield.
She seized the opportunity, ducking into the unmarked door of a service stairwell just as Preston's security guards rounded the corner.
She scrambled up the winding staircase, her breath coming in ragged sobs. The drug was a furnace inside her, a molten core of heat and confusion. Her vision doubled. Each step was a monumental effort, like trying to run through deep water.
She pushed through the fire door on the ninth floor. The blast of cold air from the hallway vents was a shock to her exposed skin, a brief, welcome slap of reality. It cleared her head for a precious second.
Below her, she heard the heavy thud of boots on the stairs. They were coming.
She pressed herself against the wall, forcing her trembling legs to move down the deserted corridor.
Suite 909. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness in the dimly lit hall. There was no time to think, no time to choose. It was instinct.
She slipped inside, pushing the heavy door shut behind her. She fumbled with the lock, her trembling fingers finally managing to throw the deadbolt. She slid down the cool wood of the door, landing in a heap on the floor, gasping for air. Her heart was a wild bird beating against the cage of her ribs.
The air in the suite was wrong.
It was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the faint, antiseptic smell of rubbing alcohol.
Her senses screamed danger.
She pushed herself up, using the wall for support. Moonlight filtered through the slats of the blinds, casting long, skeletal shadows across the room. In the center of the living area, a large, dark shape was sprawled on a leather sofa.
A man.
He was unconscious, or maybe asleep. His dark shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a torso wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. His breathing was deep and labored, a low rumble in the silent room.
She had to get out. There had to be another door.
She rose to her toes, trying to move silently across the plush carpet. Her foot bumped against something on the floor. An empty glass tumbler.
It rolled, the clinking sound echoing like a gunshot in the stillness.
The man on the sofa went rigid.
His eyes snapped open.
In a single, fluid motion, he launched himself off the sofa. He moved with the terrifying speed of a predator, a panther uncoiling. Before she could even scream, he was on her, one powerful hand closing around her throat, slamming her back against the wall.
The impact knocked the wind out of her. His grip was like iron. Black spots exploded in her vision as she clawed uselessly at the steel band of his arm.
His eyes were cold, filled with a chilling, lethal intent. But as his gaze focused on her face, on the tear tracks and the raw terror in her eyes, his pressure faltered for a fraction of a second.
It was just enough.
She took a desperate, shuddering breath, and his scent filled her lungs. It was a strange, intoxicating mix of cedarwood and something sharp, like gunpowder.
At that exact moment, the drug in her veins declared war on her last shred of control.
All reason, all fear, all thought evaporated in a tidal wave of pure, chemical-driven need. Her body, no longer her own, acted on a primal instinct she didn't know she possessed. She sagged against him, her hands grabbing the front of his torn shirt, seeking an anchor in the storm.
Julian felt the change in her instantly. The unnatural heat radiating from her skin, the glazed, unfocused look in her eyes. He frowned, his mind, clouded by pain and the lingering fog of his own trauma, struggling to process the situation. He tried to push her away.
But she clung to him like a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood. Her hot, clumsy lips found the hard line of his jaw.
It was the spark that lit the fuse.
His own control, already frayed by blood loss and the ghosts of a recent ambush, snapped. The cold killer in his eyes was consumed by a different, darker fire. His mouth came down on hers, not a kiss but a claiming, a brutal answer to the silent, desperate question her body was asking.
The rest of anight was a fever dream, a maelstrom of instinct and sensation, of pain and pleasure blurring into one.
Sunlight, sharp and intrusive, sliced through the blinds.
Colette woke with a gasp, her body aching in places she didn't know could ache.
She was alone in the bed. No, not alone. Beside her, a man lay with his back to her. A back covered in a roadmap of old, silvery scars.
The memories of the night crashed down on her. The darkness, the scent of cedar and blood, the feeling of his hands, his mouth...
Shame and a new, more urgent terror washed over her. She scrambled out of the bed, snatching her ruined dress from the floor. She pulled it on, not even bothering to look for her shoes.
She had to get out. Now. Before he woke up.
She tiptoed to the door, her hand shaking so badly she could barely turn the deadbolt. The click sounded like a thunderclap. She held her breath, glancing back at the bed. He didn't stir.
She slipped out of the room and ran, not to the main elevators, but to the service elevator at the end of the hall. She jabbed the button for the ground floor, only allowing herself to breathe as she watched the numbers descend.
At that same moment, on the other side of the ninth floor, Chelsey Burke, followed by a smirking private investigator with a camera, stormed out of the main elevator.
"She's in 909," Chelsey hissed, her face alight with vicious triumph. "Get ready to make me famous."
They marched toward the suite, only to be stopped dead in their tracks by two men in immaculate black suits. The men didn't speak. They didn't have to. Their eyes were cold and flat, promising swift, efficient violence.
A third man stepped out of the shadows. Jobe Alvarez, Julian's head of security.
"This floor is off-limits," he said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of absolute authority.
Chelsey looked from the men to the closed door of Suite 909, then back again. The professional, deadly aura surrounding them was something she had never encountered. Her plan, so perfectly laid, crumbled into dust.
She bit her lip, a frustrated, angry sound, and turned on her heel.
