The rain had begun again, steady and insistent, tapping against the tall windows of Clair's apartment as though trying to remind her she wasn't alone. She ignored it, pacing barefoot across the hardwood floors, glass of wine in her hand. She had been restless for days, and she knew why.
Steve Volkov.
He had walked into her life like a storm sharp suit, sharper eyes, a man who didn't ask for attention but commanded it with every breath. She had met him only once, at a gallery opening she'd stumbled into after work, and yet the memory of his gaze still burned through her.
He had said little to her that night, just one simple line whispered as his hand brushed hers when passing her a glass of champagne.
"You carry yourself like you don't know who's watching. That's dangerous."
Then he had smiled, dark and deliberate, before disappearing into the crowd.
Clair hadn't been able to stop thinking about him since.
And now, days later, an envelope lay on her coffee table heavy, cream-colored, sealed with black wax pressed into the shape of a lion's head. Her name written in bold strokes across the front. She had opened it with trembling fingers, the words inside elegant and terrifying all at once:
Dinner. Tomorrow. 8 PM. A car will collect you. S
No explanation. No address. Just certainty, as though she were already his to summon.
Clair told herself she should ignore it. Men like Steve were dangerous, the kind that devoured and discarded. But every time she tried to push the invitation aside, the memory of his eyes the way they had pinned her like prey returned.
So she hadn't thrown it away. She hadn't even hidden it. It sat there, on the table, like a decision she'd already made.
The next evening, a sleek black car idled at the curb outside her building. Clair descended the steps in a fitted black dress that clung to her curves, her coat drawn tightly around her. She hesitated only a moment before sliding inside.
The driver was silent, his expression unreadable. The city blurred past the tinted windows, lights smearing into streaks of gold and red. Clair's heart thudded harder with every turn, until finally the car slowed in front of a building she recognized only from whispers: the Volkov estate.
It wasn't a house. It was a fortress.
The mansion rose behind wrought-iron gates, its stone façade lit by warm golden lamps, ivy curling across its edges like veins. The kind of place with history soaked into its walls. The kind of place that belonged to a family with power older than the city itself.
The driver opened her door, and Clair stepped out, her heels clicking against the wet gravel. Her breath curled white in the night air as the heavy gates closed behind her.
The front doors opened before she could knock. And there he was.
Steve.
He stood framed in the light, dark suit tailored to perfection, tie absent, his top button undone as though to remind her that even perfection could be casual. His eyes swept over her once head to toe, deliberate and slow before meeting her gaze.
"Clair." Her name slid from his mouth like a secret.
"Steve."
He offered his hand, and she placed hers in it, heat sparking at the contact. He led her inside, the doors closing with a soft finality behind them.
The interior was no less intimidating than the exterior vaulted ceilings, chandeliers casting amber light, portraits of men with sharp eyes and harder jaws staring down from gilded frames. A fire burned in the great hearth, throwing shadows that danced across the marble floor.
Steve's hand lingered at the small of her back as he guided her through the grand hall. Every step seemed louder than it should, the marble amplifying the staccato rhythm of her heels.
"Welcome to my home," Steve said, his tone warm but edged with something darker.
"Your home," Clair repeated, glancing around. "It feels like a palace."
His lips curved faintly. "It's been in the family for generations. My grandfather built most of it himself."
At the mention, Clair's gaze flicked to one of the portraits on the wall. A stern-looking man with eyes like carved stone, silver hair slicked back, his presence so imposing that even paint couldn't contain it.
Steve noticed. "Viktor Volkov. The lion who started it all."
There was reverence in his voice, but also something else caution, perhaps. Clair couldn't tell.
She tore her eyes away from the portrait. "He looks…intimidating."
Steve's smile was slow, almost dangerous. "He is."
Dinner was laid out in a dining room that felt more like a throne hall. A long table stretched between them, gleaming with crystal and silver, though Steve had chosen to sit close, not at the distant head. His presence filled the space, even in silence.
The food was exquisite roasted lamb, rich red wine, delicacies she couldn't have named. But Clair barely tasted any of it. Her senses were too overwhelmed by the nearness of him, the way his gaze lingered, the heat coiling low in her belly every time his hand brushed hers when reaching for a glass.
At one point, he leaned closer, his voice low enough to make her shiver. "You keep looking at the door."
She startled. "Do I?"
"Yes." His eyes gleamed. "Are you waiting for someone else?"
"I…..no." Her throat tightened. "I don't know why."
His smile curved slow, predatory. "You're waiting for me. You just don't know it yet."
Her pulse stumbled. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm very sure of you," he corrected, his fingers grazing the stem of his glass. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't want this."
Clair swallowed hard, heat crawling up her neck. He was right, damn him. She could have burned the invitation. She could have refused the car. But she hadn't.
Steve leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "You should know something about me, Clair."
Her heart raced. "What?"
"I don't chase." His lips curved into a dangerous smile. "I invite. And if you step into my world, I don't let go easily."
Clair's chest tightened, heat pooling between her thighs at the dark promise beneath his words.
Before she could answer, movement stirred at the doorway.
A man entered older, tall, his hair silver at the temples but his posture unbent, his eyes sharp and piercing. The same eyes from the portrait.
Viktor Volkov.
"Grandfather," Steve said, rising smoothly to his feet. There was respect in his voice, but also steel, like two predators acknowledging each other.
Viktor's gaze swept the room, landing on Clair. For a moment, the air seemed to tighten, heavy with something unspoken. He smiled faintly, though it never reached his eyes.
"And who," Viktor said, his voice low, accented, "have you brought into my house?"
Clair's breath caught. The way he looked at her wasn't casual, nor polite. It was assessing. Claiming.
Steve placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, grounding her, but his eyes never left Viktor's. "This is Clair. She's my guest."
Viktor's smile deepened, dangerous. "Then she is our guest."
Clair felt it then the sharp awareness that this night had only just begun.
Steve's hand remained on her shoulder, steady, grounding. But Viktor's gaze lingered like a second touch, cold and unyielding, and Clair realized she had stepped into something far bigger, far more dangerous than she had imagined.
Between two men, two generations of power, two kinds of hunger.
And both had already marked her.