Time passed like poison—slow, bitter, and biting at the nerves.
Forty-five days since Ales stepped into the De Rossi estate.
Forty-five days of silence, surveillance, and not a single whisper of Astra.
Every night, once the estate grew quiet and the lights dimmed to gold, Ales moved like a ghost. Checking blueprints. Tracing the hallways. Searching the underground levels beneath Vito's study, the old wine cellars, even the locked chambers near the east wing.
But it all led to nothing.
No traces of a hidden prisoner.
No data.
No bodies.
Only air—cold and empty.
Just like the mission's progress.
And yet, that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was Celeste.
She'd grown bolder.
Meaner.
More shameless.
She hadn't said anything about that night in the car—or the hospital. Not the blood, not the seduction, not the near-hump in the backseat.
But she hadn't forgotten either.
No. She'd just found more creative ways to twist the knife.
It started small.
A towel slipping low on her hips after her bath, the corner 'accidentally' loosening as she turned toward him in the hallway.
Then came the silk—thin, sheer, and strategically untied.
She would bend near him just a second too long.
Her robe would slide open just a little too much.
Sometimes she'd drop things.
Sometimes she'd forget her panties.
Every moment was a test—and Ales passed each one with clenched fists and colder eyes.
But Celeste?
She was thriving in it.
She liked the power.
The control.
The near-constant reminder that this man—this statue of violence and self-discipline—was always one breath away from cracking.
One night, she emerged from her room just as he was finishing rounds.
The sound of a door unlocking.
Then her voice.
Lazy. Sharp.
"You're late."
Ales didn't answer.
He turned—and stopped.
She stood barefoot in the hallway, hair still damp, water tracing down her skin.
Wrapped in nothing but a thin white towel—one hand holding it lazily to her chest.
No shame. No reason.
Just bait.
Ales didn't blink.
Didn't speak.
Didn't even shift his stance.
Celeste walked forward—slow, hips swaying like a dare.
She brushed past him deliberately, bare arm grazing his abdomen.
"Don't look too long, bodyguard," she said, voice sweet like venom. "You might start wanting things."
"I don't look," Ales replied coldly.
"Liar."
She kept walking.
Towel riding higher on her thigh.
Ales turned, jaw tight.
He never moved.
Never touched.
Never stared.
But when she disappeared into her room, he finally exhaled.
And the tension left behind in the hallway?
Was thick enough to cut with a knife.
He returned to his own quarters, back aching, mind burning.
He opened his laptop. Checked the surveillance.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
He was frustrated!
Ales stood under the cold spray of the shower, water beating down on muscle and stitched scar.
His eyes were open.
Unblinking.
Unmoving.
Just breathing.
Slow.
Measured.
Trying to erase her from his bloodstream.
He'd endured worse in the field. Torture. Starvation. Psychological dismantling by specialists trained to tear a man's will into ash.
But this?
This wasn't torture.
It was worse.
Because it wasn't designed by any enemy. It came naturally. Wrapped in silk and arrogance and perfume that clung to the walls of his skull.
Celeste.
He'd been trained for sexual manipulation. Years of desensitization. Conditioning. Mental walls reinforced by pain, repetition, and denial. Honeytraps couldn't touch him. Naked threats never fazed him.
But Celeste…
She was different.
She didn't try to seduce.
She simply existed in his space like temptation incarnate. Effortless. Weaponized.
And that's what burned.
She didn't even want him.
She just liked watching him strain not to want her.
And still—
His control cracked.
Not in action.
Not in touch.
But in the silence after.
When the door closed and he was alone.
When his hands balled into fists and his jaw locked so tight his teeth ached.
It wasn't desire.
It was rage.
That she had this power over him.
That she knew.
And that every time she walked past half-naked, smiling like a queen, he had to remind himself what she took from him.
His sister.
His life.
His identity.
And still—
Still she lingered in his head like a drug.
He left the bathroom, towel slung low, muscles still twitching from tension.
The laptop on his desk blinked.
Surveillance footage.
Main hallway.
Time stamp: 01:47 AM.
Celeste.
Walking toward the east wing in nothing but silk.
Again.
He closed the laptop.
And for the first time since entering the mansion—
He punched the mirror.
Glass cracked.
So did his knuckles.
Blood dripped.
But at least it wasn't because of her.
The morning came cold and late.
Ales was already standing by the estate gates when Celeste finally stepped out—sunglasses on, coffee in one hand, indifference on her face.
She didn't greet him.
She never did.
She just walked toward the car like the world owed her smooth roads and silence.
Ales opened the door.
She slid in, legs crossed, dress short, heels sharp.
The other girls were already inside—Alina, Marissa, and Jules—all equally cruel, all equally bored. Mafia heiresses and crime brats with too much time, too much money, and not enough fear.
He got in beside the driver.
They laughed.
Alina leaned toward the back of his seat and whispered, "He doesn't speak? Or is he just trained to bark only on command?"
Celeste chuckled. "He's obedient. Like a guard dog should be."
Jules snorted. "Does he do tricks too?"
Marissa smirked. "I bet he does more than bark."
They all laughed.
Ales didn't flinch.
He never did.
But his knuckles tightened on his knee.
University.
Crowded. Loud. Pointless.
Ales followed two steps behind Celeste as she strutted through the courtyard like it was her kingdom.
Boys watched her. Girls hated her. Professors smiled with fear.
And Ales?
He was eye candy and intimidation—the silent bodyguard everyone stared at, whispered about, and no one dared approach.
At least, not most.
Celeste's friends weren't most.
In class, Celeste didn't sit still.
She shifted just enough to make her dress ride higher on her thighs.
Dropped her pen, made him pick it up.
Asked for water, then smirked when he handed it to her like a servant.
"Such good hands," she said loud enough for the whole row to hear. "So disciplined."
Ales sat behind her—silent.
Grinding his molars.
Watching. Calculating.
Lunch was worse.
They sat in the campus café. Celeste took the seat facing the windows, legs crossed, sunglasses on, like she was modeling in a warzone.
Ales stood behind her, arms folded, eyes always scanning.
"God, how do you not lose control?" Alina asked, licking her fork. "You've got all that muscle standing there doing nothing."
"Because he's not allowed to touch," Celeste purred. "Not without permission."
"Not even if I ask nicely?" Jules asked, eyes dragging down his chest.
"He doesn't listen to you," Celeste replied. "He only listens to me."
She leaned back, tilted her head.
"Ales," she said sweetly, "adjust my strap."
He didn't move.
The silence hung thick.
She turned her head. "Now."
He stepped forward, fingers cold, jaw locked, and adjusted the thin strap of her dress that had somehow slipped off her shoulder.
The skin beneath it was warm.
Soft.
He didn't look.
Didn't breathe.
"Good boy," she whispered.
He stepped back.
But his blood was already burning.
Later that day, in the hallway, she stopped suddenly and looked back at him.
"Why so tense?" she asked.
"I'm not," he said flatly.
"You sure? You're standing like someone about to explode."
"I'm trained not to."
Her smile was sharp. "You're trained to serve."
"I'm trained to kill."
"Same thing," she whispered, turning again. "Just depends who's holding the leash."