Ariana stared at the ceiling of Brandon's sprawling bedroom, the rich scent of leather and smoke curling around her like a possessive hand. The silk sheets tangled around her bare legs, her skin still flushed from the way he'd touched her hours ago—slow, brutal, worshipping like she was both his salvation and his ruin.
Moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in ghostly silver. Brandon lay beside her, one arm thrown possessively across her waist, his breathing slow and heavy in sleep. Even unconscious, he clung to her like a man who feared she might disappear.
But Ariana couldn't sleep.
Not when the darkness inside her had started to answer his.
She turned slightly, careful not to wake him. His face was unguarded in sleep, all the hard, cruel edges softened. The ink on his chest—the sprawling wolf tattoo that seemed to watch her even in dreams—shifted with each rise and fall of his breathing. She trailed her fingers lightly over it, mesmerized by the strength coiled just beneath his skin.
He was dangerous.
Irrevocably, fatally dangerous.
And yet she was still here.
Maybe she was more broken than she thought.
A soft noise outside the bedroom caught her attention—a whisper of footsteps. She froze. Brandon's body tensed immediately, his eyes snapping open. Gone was the vulnerable man she'd been admiring. In his place was the predator.
He pressed a finger against her lips in warning, slipping silently from the bed. The moonlight kissed the scars crisscrossing his back as he grabbed a gun from the nightstand drawer. He was out the door in seconds, a shadow among shadows.
Ariana sat up, heart hammering.
Every instinct screamed at her to hide, to run—but something stronger anchored her in place.
She trusted him.
God help her, she trusted the devil himself.
Minutes stretched into an eternity before Brandon returned, his expression carved from stone.
"It's handled," he said simply, setting the gun back down. His voice was low, raw.
"What was it?" she asked, voice trembling despite herself.
"A rat." His lips twisted into a grim smile. "One that won't be crawling around here again."
Ariana shivered. Not from fear—but from the sharp, terrifying thrill that always came when she saw him like this. Ruthless. Bloodstained. Unapologetic.
He moved to her in two strides, gripping her chin between his fingers.
"You're safe. As long as you stay with me, nothing will touch you."
The conviction in his voice burned.
He believed it—believed he could shield her from the world, from the consequences of loving a man like him.
But deep down, she knew better.
She wasn't afraid of the world.
She was afraid of herself—of what she was becoming in his orbit.
He kissed her then, hard and bruising, a silent claim.
Ariana whimpered into his mouth, clutching at him as if he could anchor her to reality. But reality was slipping away with every touch, every sinful whisper he poured into her soul.
When he pulled away, his eyes were molten.
"Get dressed," he rasped. "We're leaving."
"Where?"
He didn't answer. He tossed a simple black dress onto the bed—a soft, slinky thing that made her cheeks burn—and turned his back to give her privacy he usually didn't bother offering.
Curious and nervous, Ariana slipped the dress on. It clung to her like a second skin. She caught her reflection in the mirror and barely recognized herself. Gone was the innocent girl who used to dream of fairy-tale love. In her place stood a woman who wore darkness like a crown.
Brandon's eyes darkened with approval when he turned around.
"You're perfect," he said simply, voice thick.
They moved quickly through the estate, guards nodding as they passed. Ariana noticed some of them had bruises, split lips—evidence of a fight she hadn't seen. A shiver ran down her spine.
A sleek black car waited at the front. Brandon opened the door for her, and she slid inside, the leather seats cool against her bare thighs.
The drive was silent at first. Ariana watched the city blur past, neon lights and darkness blending into a fever dream. The farther they drove, the seedier the neighborhoods became. She bit her lip, nervous energy crawling under her skin.
"Where are we going?" she asked again, softer this time.
Brandon's hand found her thigh, squeezing possessively.
"Somewhere you need to see," he said. "If you're going to survive in my world."
She swallowed hard, heat pooling low in her belly at the roughness in his voice. Every part of her vibrated with anticipation and fear.
Finally, they pulled into a gated lot behind a massive warehouse. Heavy bass thudded from inside, the sound of a hidden club most civilians would never know existed.
Brandon took her hand, leading her inside.
The club was a different world—decadent, dangerous, dripping in sin. Men in suits whispered over drinks. Women in barely-there dresses lounged on velvet couches. The air was thick with smoke, sex, and power.
Heads turned as Brandon entered, parting the crowd like a shark among minnows. Ariana clung to his side, feeling the weight of every gaze. She wasn't stupid—everyone here knew who Brandon Marshall was. Knew he owned this place, and maybe half the city.
He led her up a spiral staircase to a private balcony overlooking the madness below.
"This is my kingdom," he said, voice low against her ear. "And you, little one, are my queen."
Ariana trembled as his hands slid down her body, molding her against him. Heat bloomed between her thighs as he pressed a kiss to her neck.
"You feel that?" he whispered. "Every pair of eyes on you. They all want what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should have frightened her.
Instead, it set her blood on fire.
He turned her to face him, trapping her against the balcony railing.
"I brought you here to see," he murmured, "that in my world, weakness gets eaten alive. You are not weak, Ariana. You are mine."
His mouth claimed hers, rough and demanding, stealing the breath from her lungs. His hands roamed lower, cupping her ass, grinding her against the hard length of him.
"Brandon," she gasped against his mouth, mind spinning.
"You drive me mad," he growled. "I should lock you away, keep you where no one else can look at you."
He slid a thigh between hers, pressing deliciously against her heat. She whimpered, grinding against him helplessly.
"You like that," he said darkly. "You like knowing you drive me to the edge."
His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging her head back so he could kiss down her throat, biting lightly.
Ariana's nails dug into his shoulders. She should stop him—someone could see—but the thought only made her wetter.
"You belong to me," he said again, harsher. "Say it."
"I belong to you," she whispered, tears burning her eyes.
Because it was true.
God help her, it was true.
Brandon's mouth crushed hers again, and he lifted her effortlessly onto the railing, forcing her legs around his waist. His hands slid up her thighs, bunching the dress at her hips.
He didn't care if anyone saw.
He wanted them to see.
To know she was his.
"Good girl," he whispered against her lips.
Before she could respond, a flash of movement below caught her eye. Two men, lurking near the entrance, watching the balcony with predatory smiles.
Something about them set her teeth on edge.
Brandon followed her gaze, his body tensing.
"Stay here," he ordered, voice deadly calm.
Without another word, he disappeared into the crowd below, moving like death incarnate.
Ariana clutched the railing, heart hammering.
The night wasn't over.
It was just beginning.