The golden warmth of the hallway sconces seemed to blur at the edges as Violet collapsed onto the overstuffed velvet sofa in the grand parlor. Every muscle in her body felt like lead. Adam had been a whirlwind of post-pool energy, insisting on a three-act play starring his stuffed dragon before finally succumbing to sleep. She lay there, head draped dramatically back over the armrest, her long blonde hair spilling toward the floor like a waterfall of silk.
The heavy, rhythmic tread of polished leather on hardwood signaled Roman's arrival before he even turned the corner. He had shed his waistcoat and tie hours ago, the top three buttons of his white dress shirt undone to reveal the tantalizing hollow of his throat. When he saw her- draped across his furniture like a discarded masterpiece, a slow, genuine smile tugged at his lips.
"The dragon-slayer looks defeated," he remarked, his voice a low, amused vibration.
Violet didn't even open her eyes. She just let out a long, theatrical groan. "The dragon-slayer wants a drink. A large one. Preferably something that tastes like a vacation and makes me forget that five-year-olds are made of pure, unadulterated kinetic energy."
Roman chuckled, stepping into her line of sight. "Well, I'm nothing if not a hospitable host. Let's get a drink then, Sarah?"
Violet cracked one eye open, fixed him with a look of mock disappointment, and let out another groan. "Nope. Not even close. You're losing your edge, Roman. But yes, please, to the drink."
Roman reached down, his large hands enveloping hers as he pulled her to her feet. The emerald green silk of her knee-length dress swayed around her legs, the jewel tone making her skin glow under the dim lights. He didn't let go of her hand as he led her toward his private bar-a room paneled in dark walnut and stocked with bottles that cost more than a mid-sized sedan.
He stepped behind the bar, the movements of a man who knew his way around a decanter. "If not Sarah, then perhaps... Sienna? No, you're too vibrant for earth tones. Selene?"
"Strike two and strike three," Violet chirped, hoisting herself onto a high leather barstool. She watched his hands as he poured a generous measure of aged bourbon over a single, clear sphere of ice. "Keep practicing, Tiger."
He slid the glass toward her, his fingers lingering against hers as the exchange happened. As they both took their first sips, the fire of the alcohol beginning to mellow the sharp edges of the day, Roman's expression turned serious. "The folder today. You didn't seem surprised by the details of his business. How do you know so much about Frankie if he was just a bidder at an auction?"
Violet sighed, staring into the amber depths of her glass. "My parents were thorough in their betrayal, Roman. They gave me a file before the auction. They wanted me to know exactly who was in the room so I could 'perform' better. They wanted me to understand the pedigree of the men who were about to bid on my life. I memorized every face, every title, every dirty little secret the private investigators could dig up." She took a long, stinging swallow of the bourbon. "I knew who Frankie was before he ever raised his paddle."
Roman's jaw tightened, a flash of that protective fury crossing his face, but as the hours ticked by and the level of the bourbon dropped, the anger was replaced by a heavy, hazy intoxication.
Roman Thorne was a man of legendary self-control, but tonight, sitting in the dim glow of the bar with the woman who had redefined his world, the walls were crumbling. The more they drank, the closer they leaned. The conversation became a series of hushed secrets and playful barbs, their voices dropping into a flirtatious, sloppy rhythm.
"You're very... distracting," Roman murmured, his voice thick. He had moved from behind the bar to the stool beside her. He reached out, his hand sliding up her arm to the bare skin of her shoulder. His touch was bold, possessive, and entirely un-businesslike. He leaned in, his scent- expensive tobacco and bourbon- enveloping her. "Has anyone told you that emerald green makes your eyes look like a forest I'd like to get lost in, Sloane?"
"Terrible guess," Violet giggled, her head feeling light. She didn't pull away when his hand moved to the nape of her neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind her ear. "You're drunk, Roman."
"I'm inspired," he countered. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over the column of her throat.
Violet's breath hitched. The room was spinning, but the heat radiating from him was the only thing that felt real. When he pressed a lingering, wet kiss to the sensitive spot just below her jaw, a jolt of pure arousal shot through her, sharper than the bourbon. He bit down softly, a nipping claim that made her toes curl in her heels.
But as his hands began to slide lower, toward the small of her back, a cold splash of reality hit her. The word Husband flashed in her mind like a neon warning sign.
"No," she breathed, her voice heavy as she pushed against his chest. It took more effort than it should have. "Roman, stop. I'm still married. We can't do this. I'm not... I'm not that girl."
Roman didn't pull back far. He stayed in her space, his eyes dark with a primal, focused intent. "I'm getting you out of that marriage as soon as possible, Violet. I don't care about the laws or the Princes. Because the moment he's out of the picture... you're mine. Legally, physically, entirely."
Violet gasped as he leaned in again, his teeth grazing her neck just to prove his point, a silent vow marked in skin.
"You're drunk," she whispered, her heart hammering.
"So are you," he shot back, a dark smirk playing on his lips.
"We should go to bed. Separately," she added, though it sounded weak even to her own ears.
Roman let out a dry, low laugh. "Your room isn't fixed yet. The window is a gaping hole and the security team is still sweeping for glass. Guess you're going to have to bunk with me."
"Or I could go sleep in Adam's room," Violet suggested, trying to find her footing.
The mention of his son caused a strange, irrational flash of jealousy to cross Roman's face- the kind of thought only an intoxicated man would dare voice. He gripped her waist, pulling her closer to the edge of his stool.
"No," he growled. "I'm already jealous enough of my own son. Do you have any idea how long he got to see you in that bikini today compared to me? He's way too young to even understand how gorgeous you are, and yet he gets all your smiles." He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, jagged edge. "I was jealous when you kissed him on the cheek goodnight and didn't even look at me. I'm the one fighting the wars, Violet. I'm the one who wants to burn the world down for you."
Violet was taken aback. The raw confession of jealousy- of him competing with a five-year-old for her affection, sent a rush of heat through her body. It was possessive, irrational, and utterly Roman.
She looked at his face, seeing the titan brought to his knees by a few glasses of bourbon and a woman he couldn't quite name.
"You're a jealous brute," she whispered, her heart softening.
She knew she couldn't give him what he wanted- not yet, not while the ghost of Frankie still held a piece of her paper trail. But she could offer him a bridge.
Violet leaned in, the emerald silk of her dress rustling as she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, right on the stubble of his jawline. "I'll stay in your room," she murmured against his skin, "but keep your hands to yourself, Roman. I mean it."
Roman closed his eyes, leaning into the small affection as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. "I make no promises, Star."
"Wrong again," she laughed softly, helping him stand as they began the long, unsteady walk toward the master suite. "But you're getting warmer."