The drive to the Kincaid Tower was a blur of neon lights and suffocating silence.
Julian didn't speak. He sat in the back of the Maybach, typing furiously on his phone, the blue light casting sharp, angular shadows across his face. He seemed to have forgotten she was there, yet his hand rested on the leather seat between them—inches from her thigh. The heat radiating from him was a constant reminder: You are mine now.
When the car stopped, it wasn't at the lobby. They drove straight into a private underground garage.
"Come," Julian commanded, opening the door before the driver could.
Elena followed him into a private elevator. There were no buttons. Julian pressed his palm against a scanner. The machine beeped, flashing green.
Bio-metric access. A fortress.
The elevator shot up with dizzying speed. When the doors slid open, Elena's breath caught in her throat.
The penthouse was a masterpiece of glass, steel, and darkness. The walls were floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire glittering city. The floors were black marble, polished to a mirror shine. It was beautiful, cold, and entirely masculine. It smelled of him—cedar, ozone, and power.
"This is your home now," Julian said, tossing his keys onto a console table.
He turned to face her, and for the first time that night, he looked tired. He reached up and undid his cufflinks, dropping them into a crystal bowl. Then, he began to roll up his sleeves.
Elena couldn't look away.
As the pristine white fabric was folded back, it revealed thick, tanned forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. Veins traced a roadmap of strength down to his large, capable hands. It was such a simple, domestic act, but it felt incredibly intimate.
"Stop staring, Elena. You'll have plenty of time to look later," he said, his voice dry but laced with amusement.
Elena flushed, averting her eyes. "Where... where will I sleep?"
Julian paused. The amusement vanished. He walked over to the wet bar and poured himself a drink, the amber liquid splashing over ice.
"There are five bedrooms in this penthouse," he said, taking a slow sip. He turned, leaning his hip against the bar, his eyes locking onto hers. "But there is only one Master Bedroom."
He pointed with his glass down a long, dimly lit hallway.
"The second door on the left is the guest wing. You can keep your things there."
Elena let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Safe.
"However," Julian continued, his voice dropping, "the door at the end of the hall is mine. And as per our contract... that is where you will spend your nights."
Elena's heart skipped a beat. "Every night?"
"Unless I am traveling. Or unless you displease me." He set the glass down and walked toward her.
The air in the room seemed to contract. He stopped in front of her, looming tall and dangerous. He reached out, his fingers hooking under her chin, tilting her face up.
"Go wash up," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Get rid of the dress. The makeup. I want to see you, Elena. Not the socialite armor."
"And then?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
His thumb brushed her lower lip, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a jolt of electricity skittering down her spine.
"And then," he said, his eyes darkening to obsidian, "you come to the Master Bedroom. Don't make me wait."
He released her and turned away, walking down the hall toward the room at the end. He began to unbutton his shirt as he walked, pulling the fabric from his waistband.
Elena stood frozen, watching the muscles of his back shift as he moved. She saw the expanse of tanned skin, the dip of his spine, the sheer power of the man she had just married.
A heavy, pulsating heat settled low in her belly. Fear was there, yes. But underneath the fear was something else. A dark, terrifying curiosity.
She was walking into the wolf's den. And god help her, she wanted to see what happened when the lights went out.