Chapter 11: An Unexpected Ally
713 Words
The rest of the gala was a blur of simmering tension. Sterling’s hand never left my back—a constant, proprietary weight. He was marking his territory. I was his experiment, his adversary. But I was his.
The silence in the car was heavier than before. I replayed the encounter with Julian Croft. “You look like a weapon.” He had seen a fellow predator. The thought was both unsettling and intriguing.
When the car stopped, Sterling got out with me. "I'll walk you to your door," he said. Not a request.
My heart hammered. My apartment was my only safe space, the only place not part of the Blair Davis facade. The thought of his presence consuming the small room was a violation.
"That's not necessary," my voice was tight.
"I think it is."
We walked up the three flights in silence. At my door, I fumbled for my keys. He stood behind me, too close, radiating an intimidating heat.
I finally got the door open and turned to block his entry. "Goodnight, Mr. Prescott."
He ignored the dismissal, his gaze sweeping my small living room. "This is where the Trojan Horse sleeps?" he asked, his voice laced with mockery.
"This is where your assistant lives," I corrected sharply. "And she's had a long night."
He advanced, forcing me back. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound definitive in the claustrophobic silence. We were alone. In my space. The power dynamic is inverted. Here, he was the intruder.
"What do you want, Sterling?" I asked, dropping the formal title.
His eyes darkened at the use of his first name. "Why were you talking to Croft?"
"He talked to me," I shot back. "It's called 'networking'."
"Not with him," he growled, stepping closer still. "Croft is a bottom-feeder. I won't have my variable consorting with the enemy."
He was so close I could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes. My pulse was a frantic drum. This was dangerous and reckless. My plans had never accounted for him being here, looking at me with raw, undiluted possession.
"Maybe I see him as a potential ally," I taunted, unable to stop myself.
A mistake.
His face hardened. In one swift movement, he closed the distance, his hands gripping my upper arms. The hold was iron, inescapable. "Let's be very clear," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "You don't have allies. You have me. You are my problem, my obsession. You are not to speak to him, look at him, or think about him. Do you understand?"
The raw jealousy was shocking. This wasn't business. It was primal.
My breath caught. Fear should have been the logical response. Instead, a sharp, dangerous thrill shot through me. The great Sterling Prescott was losing control. And I was the reason.
"And if I don't?" I whispered.
His eyes dropped to my lips, the anger in his gaze warring with something hotter. The hand on my arm slid up to my neck, his thumb resting on the frantic pulse at my throat. "Don't test me, Blair," he breathed.
His mouth crashed down on mine.
It wasn't a kiss of seduction. It was a punishment, a brand, a furious act of possession meant to conquer. My mind screamed enemy.
But my body betrayed me.
A wave of heat, powerful and undeniable, washed through me. The anger in his kiss met years of my pent-up rage, and the combination was explosive. My hands, which should have pushed him away, fisted in his lapels, pulling him closer.
I kissed him back, not in surrender, but as a counter-attack. The taste of him was expensive whiskey and undiluted power, and I realized with a terrifying jolt that I was starving for it.
He groaned a mix of surprise and victory, and deepened the kiss. His other arm snaked around my waist, hauling me flush against his hard body. There was no space, no air, no thought. Only the raw sensation of his mouth on mine.
This was not part of the plan. A catastrophic deviation. He wasn't just unmasking me; he was consuming me.
As his thumb stroked the frantic, traitorous pulse at my throat, a single, horrifying question cut through the haze:
Who was hunting whom?
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