Harper Voss didn't run.
She walked-fast, deliberate strides carrying her away from the warehouse, backpack slung over one shoulder, paint still wet on her skin like war paint. The night air bit at the drying crimson streaks down her throat and between her breasts, a constant reminder of Mason Blackwell's fingers, his breath, the hard ridge of him pressed against her thigh.
She refused to look back.
But she felt him watching. Felt it like a physical touch crawling up her spine.
Her phone burned in her pocket. The unknown number's message looped in her head: Finish the job or the mural isn't the only thing that burns tonight.
She'd been painting sabotage murals for the local activist collective for months-small, anonymous hits against the developers circling Oakwood like vultures. This Blackwell guy was the biggest one yet. And now he'd seen her face. Touched her. Tasted the air between them.
She turned down the narrow alley behind her rented studio, heart hammering. The building was a crumbling brick two-story with peeling paint and a back door that never quite locked right. She slipped inside, bolted the deadbolt, and leaned against it, breathing hard.
The fluorescent bulb overhead buzzed to life.
Her studio looked like chaos had thrown up: canvases stacked against walls, spray cans in milk crates, half-finished pieces dripping color onto tarps. In the center stood her latest commission-a massive canvas she'd been avoiding for weeks. A portrait. Not of a person. Of power. A man in a sharp suit, face half-shadowed, eyes cold. She'd started it as satire after hearing Blackwell's name whispered in town meetings. Now it felt prophetic.
She stripped off her tank top-too stained, too ruined-and tossed it in the sink. Standing in just her bra and jeans, she stared at the portrait. The painted version of him looked back, almost smug.
A knock.
Three sharp raps on the back door.
Her pulse spiked.
She froze.
Another knock-slower, more insistent.
"Harper."
His voice. Low. Velvet. Right through the thin metal door.
She didn't answer.
"I know you're in there." A pause. "I can smell the paint."
She pressed her forehead to the cool steel. "Go away, Blackwell."
Silence stretched. Then the doorknob rattled-gently at first, testing.
"I don't like being told no."
Her laugh came out shaky. "Get used to it."
The rattling stopped.
She exhaled, thinking he'd left.
Then she heard it: the soft click of something electronic. A beep.
Her stomach dropped.
She spun, eyes darting to the corners of the room. High on the far wall, tucked behind a stack of frames, a tiny red light blinked once-then steadied.
A camera.
Freshly installed. Professional grade. Not hers.
Rage boiled up hot and fast.
She grabbed a ladder, climbed, and yanked the device free. Wires trailed like veins. She crushed it under her boot, glass crunching.
Then she stormed to the door and flung it open.
Mason stood there-coat unbuttoned, shirt still smeared with her paint, sleeves rolled to reveal corded forearms. He didn't look surprised. He looked... satisfied.
"You broke my camera," he said mildly.
"You put a fucking camera in my studio."
"Security." He stepped forward without invitation. She didn't move aside. Their bodies brushed-chest to chest-in the narrow doorway. "For your safety."
"Bullshit." She shoved at him. He caught her wrists again, same grip as before. Firm. Unyielding.
His eyes dropped to her bare torso. To the black lace bra barely containing her, paint still streaking her skin. To the way her chest rose and fell with fury.
"You should cover up," he murmured. "Unless you want me to finish what we started outside."
Heat flooded her cheeks-and lower. Traitorous body. She jerked her wrists free. "You think you can just-"
He moved faster than she expected.
One hand cupped the back of her neck, the other splayed across her lower back, pulling her flush against him. Her breasts crushed to his chest. His thigh wedged between hers again-higher this time, pressing right where she ached despite herself.
"You think I won't?" His mouth hovered over hers. Close enough she tasted mint and danger on his breath. "I already own this building, Harper. Lease signed yesterday. You're renting from me now."
Her eyes widened.
"And I own the street cameras. The utility records. The coffee shop where you work mornings." His thumb stroked the paint line down her throat-slow, deliberate. "I own every door between you and the world tonight."
She should have screamed. Kneed him. Run.
Instead her hips rocked forward-tiny, involuntary-grinding against the thick length straining his trousers.
He groaned. Low. Animal.
"That's it," he breathed against her lips. "Fight me all you want. Your body already knows who it belongs to."
She bit his lower lip-hard enough to draw blood.
He hissed, then kissed her.
Not gentle.
Devouring.
Tongue claiming her mouth like he'd been starving for it. One hand fisted in her hair, angling her head; the other slid down to grip her ass, lifting her onto her toes so his cock notched perfectly against her core through denim.
She moaned into his mouth-hated herself for it-then kissed him back just as viciously. Teeth clashing. Nails digging into his shoulders through fabric.
He backed her into the studio, kicking the door shut behind them. Pushed her against the nearest wall-right beside her half-finished portrait of him.
The irony wasn't lost on either of them.
He broke the kiss only to drag his mouth down her neck, following the paint trail. Tongue flicked out-tasting crimson and salt and her skin. She arched, fingers threading into his hair, pulling hard.
"Not here," she gasped. "Not like this."
He lifted his head. Eyes black with hunger. "Then where?"
She shoved him back-hard. He let her, but only a step.
She reached behind, unclasped her bra. Let it fall.
His gaze devoured her bare breasts-nipples tight, flushed. Paint still streaked across them like deliberate marks.
"Upstairs," she said, voice rough. "My apartment. If you're going to ruin me, do it where no one can hear me scream your name."
A slow, dangerous smile curved his bloodied lip.
He scooped her up-effortless, bridal style-her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. His cock pressed right against her soaked center as he carried her toward the narrow stairs at the back.
Halfway up, he paused. Pinned her to the wall again. Ground against her in slow, torturous circles.
She whimpered-actual sound of need.
"Say it," he growled.
"Say what?"
"That you're mine tonight."
She laughed breathlessly. "I'm nobody's."
He thrust harder-once, punishing. Stars burst behind her eyes.
"Lie to me again," he warned, "and I'll edge you until dawn without letting you come."
Her nails scored his neck.
"Fine," she hissed. "Tonight... I'm yours to break."
He rewarded her with a deep, filthy kiss-then carried her the rest of the way.
The apartment door slammed behind them.
He dropped her on the bed-mattress dipping under their weight.
He loomed over her, shedding his ruined shirt. Muscles carved from years of control, scars she didn't expect tracing his ribs-old fights, old pain.
She reached for his belt.
He caught her wrist.
"Not yet."
He pinned both her hands above her head with one of his. The other trailed down her body-slow, possessive. Cupped one breast, thumb circling the nipple until she writhed.
"Please," she whispered-hated how desperate she sounded.
He leaned down. Mouth hovered over her ear.
"I told you. I take what I want."
His fingers dipped beneath her waistband-found her drenched.
She bucked.
He circled her clit-once, feather-light.
Then stopped.
Her eyes flew open.
"Mason-"
A knock echoed from downstairs.
Violent. Urgent.
Then a voice-male, unfamiliar.
"Harper! Open up! It's Ethan. We need to talk-now. Langston's men are circling the block. They know about the mural."
Mason's hand froze between her thighs.
His eyes met hers-dark, lethal.
"Who the fuck is Ethan?"
Her breath caught.
And in that suspended heartbeat, the sound of shattering glass came from below.
The back door.
Someone had just broken in.
