Elare didn't stop him.
Not when his hand cupped her cheek.
Not when his thumb traced the curve of her bottom lip.
Not when his body moved closer—close enough to feel the flutter of her chest against his, the faint tremor beneath her skin.
For a woman who seemed made of ice, Elara Quinn was burning.
And Jace had every intention of finding out just how deep the fire ran.
His lips brushed hers—once. Just a ghost of contact. Not a kiss. A warning.
She didn't pull back.
But her eyes stayed open, watching him. Daring him.
So he did it again.
Slower. Firmer. Letting it build.
Her breath hitched the second time, lips parting slightly as if she were about to speak, but no words came out.
He moved in, one hand sliding to her waist, the other tangling in the loose knot of her robe.
Her fingers closed around his wrist. Not to stop him.
Just to feel it.
"Say the word," he whispered. "And I'll stop."
Her silence was louder than a scream.
The robe slipped from her shoulders.
It fell in slow motion, whispering to the floor like silk melting against marble.
She stood in front of him wearing nothing but the city's lights through the glass window behind her—soft and gold, bathing her bare skin in flickering shadows.
His breath left him.
She was all lines and curves, taut grace and quiet strength. Every inch of her was sculpted, elegant, real.
And she let him see her.
She let him look.
"Touch me," she said, her voice low and clear. "But don't pretend this means anything."
He stepped forward.
"I'm not pretending anything."
His hands found her hips first. Warm. Firm. She inhaled, sharp and sudden, but didn't step away.
He kissed her collarbone.
Then lower.
Her head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut.
"You're dangerous," she murmured.
"And you're lying to yourself," he replied.
They moved to the living room floor, on top of the thick fur rug by the fireplace. It was the only soft place close enough. She didn't care about the cold tile beneath her legs, or the fact that her body had just become the most vulnerable thing in this penthouse.
Because she wanted it.
God, she wanted it.
His mouth traveled along her skin like he was learning a map. Every inch of her was an answer to a question he hadn't asked—but had wanted to.
Her fingers tangled in his hair as his lips moved lower, teasing, then demanding, then soft again. A rhythm that had no name but hers.
She gasped when he found her center. Shuddered.
But when he pulled back to look at her, she froze.
The light from the fireplace illuminated her face—and the crack in her mask.
Not just lust. Something else.
Fear.
Jace paused.
"You okay?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Then, with a shaky breath, she whispered, "I haven't done this in years."
His hand brushed her cheek. "You don't have to prove anything."
"I'm not," she said. "I just don't want to think."
He kissed her again—soft, this time. "Then don't. Let me do that for both of us."
When he sank into her, she let out a sound that wasn't quite a moan and not quite a sob—somewhere in between.
Raw. Real.
Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her hips met his, slow at first. Searching. Relearning.
Then faster. Harder.
She wrapped her legs around him and buried her face in his neck as the rhythm deepened, as her breathing became fractured and desperate.
Jace held her like she was both the flame and the fuel.
She clawed at his back. Bit his shoulder. Whimpered his name like it hurt to say it.
And when she came undone, it wasn't with a scream—but with a whisper.
"Don't make me feel this."
He didn't answer.
He just held her through the tremors.
And followed her into the fall.
Afterward, they lay tangled in silence, her back against his chest, his arms around her waist.
The fireplace cast long, low shadows across the room.
She didn't move. Neither did he.
Her breathing slowed.
But the wall was already rising again. He could feel it—brick by brick.
"You should go," she said eventually.
He didn't move. "Do you want me to?"
She hesitated. Just long enough to tell him everything.
Then she said, "Yes."
He stood slowly, grabbed his shirt from the floor, and looked at her one last time.
Still naked. Still curled on the rug. Still beautiful and haunted and silent.
"Next time," he said, voice low, "you don't get to pretend you didn't feel it."
Then he left.
Back in his room, Jace stared at the ceiling again.
He should've felt victorious.
She gave in. She let him in.
But it didn't feel like a win.
It felt like… the beginning of something complicated.
Because no matter how much she tried to hide it, Elara Quinn didn't just want him.
She needed him.
And that made her dangerous.
The next morning, she was gone.
No note.
No breakfast.
No trace of her in the penthouse at all.
Jace wandered through the apartment, shirtless and barefoot, tension tightening every step. He didn't expect flowers and breakfast in bed—but he didn't expect to be ghosted either.
He checked the bedroom door.
Still locked.
Still impenetrable.
Typical.
He headed to the private lounge downstairs—where she'd kissed him, where her robe had fallen like a curtain revealing something forbidden.
But the bar was empty.
Piano untouched. Lights off. Room cold.
She'd vanished.
By afternoon, he gave up looking.
He sat on the couch, flipping through channels with the volume muted, jaw tight, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest.
That's when he noticed it.
A new rule sheet. Neatly printed. Sitting on the kitchen counter.
HOUSE RULES — UPDATED
No guests.No entering the main bedroom.No wandering shirtless.No questions about the past.No touching without permission.No sex. Ever again.He stared at the last line for a long time.
Then crumpled the paper in one hand and tossed it in the trash.
If she thought a printed list could undo what happened last night, she was even more scared than he thought.
And he wasn't backing down now.