Chapter 4: Penthouse Trouble
The phone call rattled around in Elena's skull long after the line went dead.
Stay away from Damon Blackthorne, or you'll end up dead.
The voice had been low, rough, distorted, like whoever it was had gone out of their way to make sure she couldn't recognize it. Her fingers were still clenched around her phone when she realized her palms were slick with sweat.
"Shit," she muttered, shaking her hands out like she could fling the anxiety off.
But even as she tried to focus on the interviews she'd lined up, her mind wasn't on the nervous HR assistant stammering through her answers. It wasn't on the finance guy rattling off numbers. It wasn't even on the story she was supposed to be writing about corporate greed.
It was on him. Damon.
Cocky, cold-eyed Damon Blackthorne with the arrogant smirk, the sharp teeth she knew she saw, and the way he could make her body betray her with just a look.
And now some anonymous warning about ending up dead.
She'd walked into billionaire bullshit before. But this? This was something else.
By the time her workday wrapped up, her nerves were shot. She shoved her notes into her bag and stormed toward the elevator, muttering curses under her breath.
I should quit. Fuck this. It's not worth it.
The elevator doors slid open, and her stomach dropped.
Because he was already inside.
Leaning against the mirrored wall like he'd been waiting for her all damn day, a smirk tugging at his lips. His tie was loosened now, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, showing a sinful stretch of chest that made her brain short-circuit.
"Miss Hart," Damon purred, like her name tasted good in his mouth. "Heading out?"
Elena's first instinct was to hit the button for the lobby and pretend he wasn't there. Her second instinct was to slap the smugness right off his face. Her third—and most dangerous—was to press herself against him just to see what would happen.
She settled for glaring. "Do you always stalk your employees, or am I just special?"
He chuckled, pushing off the wall with infuriating grace. "Special, of course. I don't make a habit of riding elevators with anyone else."
The doors slid shut. The car began its slow climb.
Wait. Climb?
Elena frowned, glancing at the panel. "Hey. This isn't going down."
Damon slid his hands into his pockets, looking entirely too pleased. "No, darling. It isn't."
The little red number ticked higher. Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty.
Her chest squeezed. "Where the hell are we going?"
"My place," he said simply.
Elena's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
The corner of his mouth curled. "The penthouse."
Panic and heat tangled in her stomach. "You kidnapped me in a fucking elevator?"
He arched a brow. "Kidnapped? I pressed a button. You chose to stay."
Her hand shot out to hit the lobby button, but the panel blinked red. Locked.
Her heart stuttered. "What the fuck—"
"It only goes where I tell it to," Damon said smoothly, eyes glinting with something sharp. "Perks of owning the building."
She slammed her hand against the panel. "You arrogant—"
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open onto a private hallway, marble darker, sleeker, more ominous than the lobby downstairs.
And beyond the double doors at the end—his lair.
The penthouse was another world.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the skyline, the city glittering like a million little secrets spread at their feet. The air smelled faintly of expensive leather, spiced wine, and something darker—like smoke after a fire.
Everything was black, silver, or crimson. Black leather couches. A silver bar cart with crystal decanters full of blood-red liquid. Crimson silk drapes that looked like they belonged in a palace, not a modern tower.
Elena's throat went dry.
"Welcome," Damon murmured, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the couch. He moved like a man in his own kingdom. Which, technically, he was.
Elena spun on him. "You can't just drag me up here!"
He smirked. "Drag? Darling, you walked."
"You locked the fucking elevator!"
His smirk deepened. "Semantics."
Her hands clenched into fists. "You're unbelievable."
"And you," he countered smoothly, pouring himself another glass of wine, "are far too uptight."
He held the glass out toward her.
She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not drinking whatever the hell that is."
"Suit yourself." He tipped it back, lips stained red.
Elena tried not to stare at the way his throat moved as he swallowed. Tried not to notice how the light caught in his eyes, making them gleam almost unnaturally.
"You're hiding something," she blurted before she could stop herself.
Damon's smile turned razor-sharp. "Am I?"
"Yes." Her voice shook, but she forced it steady. "I saw it. Your eyes. Your… teeth."
For the first time, his cocky expression faltered. Just slightly.
Then he laughed, dark and low, stepping closer until her back hit the cool glass of the window. The city glittered behind her like a stage set.
"You think you've figured me out?" he murmured, one hand bracing against the glass beside her head.
Her heart hammered. "I know you're not normal."
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Normal is boring."
Her breath hitched. His scent wrapped around her again, intoxicating. She hated herself for the way her body responded—heat pooling, thighs pressing tighter, nipples tightening under her blouse.
"Get away from me," she whispered, though it sounded weak even to her own ears.
He chuckled, pulling back just enough to catch her gaze. "Do you really want me to?"
Elena swallowed hard. She should say yes. She should scream, push him off, demand he take her back downstairs.
But her body was a traitor.
Her lips parted. "I don't—"
Before she could finish, his phone buzzed on the bar cart.
The tension snapped. Damon straightened, eyes narrowing at the screen. His entire posture shifted from cocky predator to something colder, harder, like a king bracing for war.
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Because his eyes met hers, and she knew.
Whoever was on the other end of that call was the same person who'd just warned her.
Damon set the phone down without a word, then looked back at Elena. His smirk was gone now, replaced by a deadly seriousness.
"You shouldn't have come here," he said quietly.
The glass behind her shuddered under the weight of the storm rolling through the city.
And Elena realized—she wasn't sure if he meant the penthouse, or his life.