The black SUV cut through the city like a blade, windows tinted so dark the outside world blurred into streaks of neon and shadow. Harper sat in the back seat beside Mason, thighs pressed together under the oversized hoodie, still wearing nothing beneath but ruined lace panties. Her backpack-hastily stuffed with a change of clothes, sketchbook, and the smallest tube of crimson paint she could grab-rested between her feet like a talisman.
Mason hadn't spoken since they left the wrecked studio.
He didn't need to.
His hand rested high on her thigh-thumb stroking slow, absent circles over bare skin just under the hem. Each pass sent fresh heat pooling low in her belly. She tried to shift away once. He tightened his grip. Not painful. Possessive.
The driver-a stone-faced man in a black suit-never glanced in the rearview.
They pulled into an underground garage beneath a sleek glass tower that hadn't existed in Oakwood five years ago. Blackwell Enterprises headquarters. Top three floors: private residence.
The elevator ride was silent except for the soft ding of passing floors and her own uneven breathing.
When the doors opened directly into the penthouse, Harper's breath caught.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped three sides. City lights glittered below like fallen stars. Black marble floors, charcoal leather furniture, minimalist art that probably cost more than her entire life. One wall was glassed-in bookshelves. Another held a single massive canvas-abstract, violent reds and blacks. She recognized the style instantly.
It was one of hers.
From two years ago. Sold anonymously through a small gallery in the city. She'd thought the buyer was some corporate collector who liked "edgy" decor.
Mason had bought it.
He watched her realize.
"Welcome home," he said quietly.
She turned to face him. "This isn't my home."
"Not yet." He stepped closer. "But you're here now. And you're staying until I say otherwise."
Anger flared through the lingering adrenaline and lust. "You can't just kidnap me."
"I'm not kidnapping you." He reached out, tucked a strand of paint-streaked hair behind her ear. "I'm keeping you alive. Langston's men won't stop at threats. Your sister's address was the opening move."
Her stomach twisted at the reminder of Lily.
Mason's expression softened-just a fraction. "My team is already moving her and your aunt to a secure location. Off-grid. No trace. They'll be safe."
Harper searched his face. "Why?"
"Because no one threatens what belongs to me." His hand slid to her nape, fingers threading into her hair. "And you belong to me."
She should have slapped him. Run. Screamed.
Instead she rose on her toes and kissed him-hard, angry, desperate.
He groaned into her mouth, lifted her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. He carried her through the penthouse-past the living area, down a short hallway-into a bedroom that felt more like a sanctuary than a cage.
King bed. Black silk sheets. One lamp casting low amber light.
He dropped her onto the mattress. She bounced once, hoodie riding up to expose everything.
Mason stood at the foot of the bed, shedding his ruined shirt. Muscles shifted under scarred skin. He unbuckled his belt-slow, deliberate. The leather whispered as he pulled it free.
Her mouth went dry.
He crawled over her, caging her with arms braced on either side of her head.
"Last chance," he murmured. "Tell me to stop."
She reached up, nails scoring lightly down his chest. "Don't you dare."
That was all he needed.
He ripped the hoodie over her head in one motion. Cool air hit her bare skin. Then his mouth was on her-hot, hungry. He kissed down her throat, following the faded paint lines like a map only he could read. When he reached her breast, he sucked hard-teeth grazing the nipple until she arched off the bed with a cry.
His hand slid between her thighs, found her drenched. Two fingers plunged inside without warning.
She gasped his name.
He curled them-hitting that spot that made stars burst behind her eyelids.
"Say it again," he growled against her skin.
"Mason-"
"Louder."
"Mason!"
He rewarded her with a third finger-stretching her, pumping slow and deep while his thumb circled her clit in merciless rhythm.
She writhed. Begged. Cursed him.
He didn't let her come.
Every time her thighs began to shake, he slowed. Edged her. Pulled his hand away just as she teetered on the brink.
Tears of frustration pricked her eyes.
"Please," she whispered.
He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Not yet."
He stripped the rest of his clothes-cock springing free, thick and heavy. She stared-hungry, a little afraid.
He caught her chin. "Look at me."
Her eyes lifted to his.
"When I'm inside you," he said, voice rough, "you don't come until I say. Understand?"
She nodded-shivering.
He positioned himself at her entrance. Rubbed the head through her folds-coating himself in her wetness.
Then pushed in-slow. Inch by torturous inch.
She moaned-long, broken. He was bigger than she'd imagined. The stretch burned sweetly.
When he bottomed out, hips flush to hers, he stilled.
"Look at me," he ordered again.
She did.
He began to move-slow, deep rolls that dragged against every sensitive spot inside her.
Her nails dug into his back.
"Harder," she gasped.
"No." He kept the punishing rhythm. "You take what I give."
She clenched around him-trying to force him faster.
He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. The other gripped her hip-holding her still while he fucked her exactly how he wanted: controlled, relentless, owning.
Sweat slicked their skin. The bed creaked. Her moans turned to sobs of need.
"Please-Mason-let me-"
He leaned down. Lips brushed her ear.
"Come."
The command shattered her.
She came hard-back arching, vision whiting out, inner walls pulsing around him in violent waves.
He didn't stop.
He fucked her through it-drawing it out until she was whimpering, oversensitive.
Only then did he let himself go.
Thrusts turned brutal. Deep. Claiming.
He buried his face in her neck-growling her name like a prayer-as he spilled inside her, hot and endless.
They stayed locked together, breathing ragged.
He kissed her temple. Soft now. Almost tender.
Then he rolled them so she lay draped across his chest.
His hand stroked down her spine-possessive, soothing.
"You're safe here," he murmured.
She believed him.
For the first time in years.
But safety never lasted.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He reached for it without letting her go.
Text from his head of security:
Langston just posted bail for the three men we detained. They're talking. Names dropped: Harper Voss. Primary target. Secondary: Lily Voss. They know the safehouse location. Team en route now-ETA 20 minutes.
Mason's arm tightened around her.
Harper felt the shift in his body-tension coiling like a spring.
He sat up slowly, taking her with him.
She searched his face. "What?"
He cupped her cheek.
"They found your sister."
Her blood ran cold.
He kissed her-fierce, brief.
"Get dressed. We're moving her ourselves. Tonight."
He stood-already reaching for fresh clothes.
But as he turned away, his phone lit up again.
Another message.
This one not from security.
Unknown Number:
She paints so pretty. Shame if something happened to that talented little hand. Tick tock, Blackwell. Hand her over, or we start sending pieces.
Attached: photo.
Lily-bound, gagged, terrified-holding up a paintbrush dripping red.
Harper's scream was silent.
Mason crushed the phone in his fist.
Then looked at her-eyes promising apocalypse.
"No one takes from me."
He pulled her into his arms-naked, trembling, his.
"We end this. Together."
But even as he said it, the elevator dinged softly in the distance.
Someone was coming up.
And it wasn't his team.
