The silence on the grand staircase was vibrating with the static of unspoken desires and biological warfare. Malcolm Ford stood frozen, his hand still cupping Luca Vane's jaw. The heat of the intern's skin was a physical brand against his palm, a contrast to the icy stone of the corridor.
Malcolm's amber eyes were wide, the pupils dilated until the gold was nothing more than a ring around the darkness. He had asked the question—a slip of the tongue, a moment of weakness that he couldn't recall—and the moment it left his lips, he wanted to tear his own throat out. He's a boy. But the part of his blood that belonged to the Enigma was purring, a low, metallic hum that drowned out the boardroom logic.
Luca's silver eyes caught the amber glow, reflecting a chilling, predatory intelligence beneath the "shy" facade. He didn't pull away. Instead, he maintained the illusion of being completely spellbound.
