Tyric and Tesmee stepped into the penthouse, the soft click of the door behind them sealing them off from the world. He reached for the light switch, flooding the space with a dim, golden glow that cast long shadows across the modern furniture and high ceilings.
Without saying a word, Tyric walked toward the kitchen counter. The weight of the day hung heavily on him, visible in every step he took. He grabbed the bottle of tequila, the clear liquid catching the soft light. One by one, he poured ten shots with the speed of someone trying to outrun something internal—then, without hesitation, downed them all in a sequence that only a man used to drowning his thoughts could.
His head tilted back as he swallowed the last shot. A rough groan escaped him as the fire spread through his chest. Slowly, he looked up—his eyes meeting Tesmee's, a silent storm stirring beneath them.
She walked over quietly, her heels barely making a sound against the floor. With a slow breath, she placed her hands on the counter across from him—fingers spread slightly as if grounding herself, as if grounding him too.
"Something bothering you?" she asked, her voice gentle but steady.
Her eyes stayed on him, observing closely. The Tyric she had grown to understand was composed—lethal, yes—but not reckless. Not this man who killed without hesitation that night. Not this man now downing shot after shot like it was the only way to stay standing.
She wasn't afraid. Not of him. Not of the fire he could unleash. What shook her now wasn't fear of the chaos he could bring to the world—but concern that something inside him was unraveling. This wasn't just the Volkov heir... this was the storm behind the legend, and she wasn't sure if it was meant to destroy or to protect.
He turned away from her, swallowing down the shot like water, like punishment. Tesmee watched him silently.
He groaned, the sound guttural and raw, as the tequila scorched its brutal path down his throat, setting his chest and stomach ablaze.
"No," he growled, his voice thick, deep, the single word drenched in something darker than refusal.
Tesmee exhaled slowly, the sound of her breath the only thing filling the heavy silence between them. She studied him — the storm in his eyes, the quiet ache he couldn't hide.
"I have my days... Don't mind me," he muttered, his voice crumbling into something almost broken.
She cleared her throat, masking the twist in her chest.
"I have something I need to do tomorrow night," she said, forcing her voice to stay calm, unaffected. "I'll be leaving early in the morning."
His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing with sudden focus, as if he already sensed what she wasn't saying.
"Something like what?" His voice was low, almost dangerous, the kind of quiet that meant everything.
"A mission," she said, meeting his gaze without flinching — but the word landed between them like a spark to dry wood, setting something unseen on fire.
"What mission?" he asked, his voice rough as gravel, the words dragging across the thick air between them. He lifted the glass again, swallowing another mouthful of tequila as easily as water, as if trying to drown the questions clawing at him.
Tesmee hesitated, her eyes flickering away from his piercing stare.
"I'd prefer not to say... not yet," she said softly, her voice guarded.
Without waiting for his reaction, she moved toward the fridge, her heels clicking lightly against the cold floor. She pulled open the door, the soft hum filling the silence, and grabbed a 500ml bottle of water—anything to busy her hands, anything to stop herself from saying more than she should.
Behind her, the tension stretched tighter, fraying at the edges like a wire about to snap.
Tesmee returned to the chair by the counter, the bottle of water placed with a soft clink onto the marble surface. She exhaled quietly, the fatigue of the night catching up to her, and bent forward to unstrap her heels—small movements, tired but graceful.
Before she could reach them, Tyric was there.
Silent, deliberate.
His hand slid around the back of her leg, his touch firm yet gentle, halting her movements. Without a word, he knelt before her, his fingers working deftly to undo the delicate straps wrapped around her ankle.
The brush of his skin against hers sent an involuntary shiver up her spine.
He moved slowly, almost reverently, as if the simple act of removing her heels meant more than either dared to admit. His broad shoulders blocked the world from her view, leaving only the tension that hummed between them—charged, unspoken, inevitable.
The room was silent except for the soft rasp of leather slipping free and the pulse of something heavier neither could name.
Tyric rose slowly, his palms gliding up the smooth curve of her leg, tracing the path to her thighs with a deliberate slowness that made Tesmee's breath hitch. His hands gripped her firmly, pinning her back against the counter with a controlled dominance, even as she remained seated—vulnerable yet defiant beneath him.
Their eyes locked, an invisible war waging between them.
He leaned in, his mouth mere inches from hers, his breath a slow burn against her lips. Tesmee could feel her control slipping, the dangerous magnetism between them pulling her under with every second that ticked by.
Tyric's sharp gaze drank her in—every twitch, every falter—and when he caught the flicker of surrender in her eyes, a wicked smirk tugged at his lips.
Without another word, he pulled away, the sudden loss of his touch like a slap to her senses.
He grabbed the bottle of tequila, casually sealing it with a slow twist of his wrist. His voice broke the heavy silence, low and edged with amusement.
"You like me, Tesmee..." he said, scoffing under his breath as he tilted his head, studying her with a predator's patience. "unusual..."
Tesmee turned her head slowly, her eyes sharp yet unreadable as they locked onto his. A small, almost careless smirk tugged at her lips as she said, "Is that a crime?"
The air between them tightened, thick with things neither of them dared to say out loud.
Tyric's jaw flexed as he leaned back slightly, his gaze never wavering from hers. His voice was low, rough, almost like a warning wrapped in velvet.
"I'm married, gorgeous..." he said, the words tasting bitter even to his own tongue.
But there was no retreat in his eyes—only a slow-burning hunger that contradicted everything he just claimed.
"Straight trees are cut first, Tyric," Tesmee said, a sly scoff slipping past her lips as she rose from the chair. She bent over to pick up her heels, every movement deliberate, knowing full well he was watching her.
Tyric's mouth curved into a slow, wicked smirk. His eyes darkened as he leaned lazily against the counter, bottle still in hand.
"Lucky for me..." he drawled, his voice low and rough, "...I'm not a tree."
The way he said it sent a shiver down her spine—one he definitely caught but neither of them acknowledged out loud.
The tension between them snapped tighter, humming in the heavy air like a warning... or a promise.
Tesmee smirked as she pushed her hair back, the motion slow, sensual — every inch of her confidence dripping like honey.
"Of course you're not a tree," she said, her voice low and teasing. "Metaphorically speaking... if you were, though," she leaned in just enough to make him feel the pull, "I'd have no problem falling for you."
Tyric chuckled darkly under his breath, the sound rich and dangerous. His eyes swept over her, slow and possessive, like he was debating just how much trouble he'd let himself get into tonight.
"And here I thought you were the one trying to resist temptation," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a wicked grin.
The air between them thickened — charged, heavy with everything unspoken, everything forbidden.
Tesmee let out a low scoff, her lashes lowering as she glanced down and then back up at him — a subtle, dangerous kind of blush haunting her cold expression.
She leaned her left side against the counter, one hip jutting out in a slow, deliberate curve that dared him to look — dared him to touch.
Tyric closed the distance between them, each step like a silent threat. His face hovered just inches from hers, his scent mixing with the tequila and smoke still lingering in the air.
Her lips parted slightly, the heat between them sparking wild, reckless thoughts.
But instead of claiming her mouth, Tyric slowly lifted his left hand — slipping it between them like a blade — the heavy gold ring catching the light.
His voice was a low growl against her skin, thick with the weight of temptation and warning.
"I don't think I need another beautiful disaster in my life," he said, his smirk dangerous.
"You're already too damn tempting for your own good."
Tesmee's fingers slid gracefully behind his neck, her touch soft but electric, pulling him closer just enough to feel her warmth radiating against him. Her voice was a low, teasing murmur, dripping with temptation.
"You do know... nobody has to know," she whispered, her lips barely grazing his ear.
Tyric's gaze remained cold, unreadable, as if he were a man who had long ago learned the art of control. His expression didn't shift, not even a flicker, as he replied in that gravelly, almost bored tone.
"Last time I checked, I'm the one who's drunk," he muttered, the words heavy with a promise he wasn't willing to break.
He pulled away with a final glance, leaving her standing there, a storm of emotions just beneath her calm exterior. The penthouse door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed louder than it should've.
Tesmee leaned back into her seat, a sigh escaping her lips. A smirk curved on her face as she twisted open the bottle of water, her fingers dancing over the cool surface. She brought it to her lips, taking a long, deliberate sip, eyes never leaving the door through which he'd just left.
There was no backing down now.
Tesmee leaned back in her chair, the cool bottle of water now resting lightly in her hands. Her mind, however, wasn't as still. She wasn't just testing his resolve when it came to his marriage—she was testing his loyalty, probing the depths of his character through the very things he held dear.
She let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh as her thoughts spiraled. Was he truly the man he seemed to be? The one who cherished what he had, the one who didn't betray what was important to him. She had seen men falter before, seen them fall for the allure of power, greed, or desire. But there was something in the way he had stepped back, in the way he had resisted her—something that told her he wasn't like the others.
Maybe… she thought, her lips curving into a small, satisfied smirk, maybe I've found the right ally after all.
With that, her fingers tightened around the water bottle, her gaze fixed ahead, distant yet sharp, as if already anticipating the next move.