Daisy barely looked at him.
For two days, she walked through the penthouse like a ghost, silent, cold, distant. She answered only when necessary, kept her eyes averted, and slept in her own room.
Xander noticed.
Of course he did.
And it infuriated him.
"Did I do something?" he finally asked one evening, standing in the hallway with his jaw clenched.
She didn't even pause as she walked past.
"No. You just finally showed me who you are."
That stopped him cold.
He didn't ask more. He didn't chase her.
He let her be.
But that night, Daisy tossed and turned in her bed, sweating under her sheets, haunted not just by what she read but by the man whose scent lingered on her skin.
THE TEMPTATION
Midnight.
The file lay on her nightstand, still half-open.
She couldn't unsee what was there.
Couldn't unfeel the betrayal.
Couldn't unshake the image of her father's name under a termination order bearing Xander's signature.
And yet She couldn't stop the ache, either.
The more she resisted, the more her body betrayed her.
The room was too hot.
The silence too loud.
And in her mind's eye, she could still feel Xander's hands dominant, possessive, claiming her like she belonged to him.
She tried turning over.
Tried closing her eyes.
Tried not thinking about him.
It didn't work.
At 2:17 a.m., Daisy gave in.
Barefoot, she crept down the hallway, heart hammering. The light from under his door was off.
He was asleep.
Good.
That made it easier.
She turned the knob slowly. It wasn't locked. Of course it wasn't. He never expected her to stay away.
He lay sprawled across the bed, shirtless, his chest rising and falling slowly, one arm thrown above his head. Moonlight streamed in from the tall glass window, casting sharp lines across his muscles.
Daisy stood frozen for a moment. She could leave now. Walk away. Pretend this never happened.
But her feet moved forward on their own.
Then her hands.
She crawled onto the bed, lips hovering over his chest, and then she kissed him.
Once. Soft.
Then again, slower.
She whispered against his collarbone, "I hate that I want you."
Xander stirred.
His eyes fluttered open, sleepy then focused.
"Daisy?"
She didn't stop.
She straddled him, her lips now on his jaw, her hands tracing the muscles of his arms.
He didn't speak again. He just grabbed her waist and flipped her onto her back, staring down at her like a storm barely held at bay.
"You ignored me," he growled.
"I had a reason."
"You think that'll save you now?"
And then he kissed her.
Hard.
They made it to the bathroom somehow, tangled in sheets, kisses, gasps.
Xander turned the water on, warm steam filling the space. She stood under it, hair soaked, his lips finding her neck again.
"You came to me," he whispered, hands sliding down her back.
"Shut up," she said breathlessly.
But he didn't.
He pulled her close, pressing her back against the wall, water running down their skin.
"Say you're mine."
"No."
He kissed her throat.
"Say it."
She gasped.
"I'm yours."
When they collapsed onto the bed again later, chests rising fast, sheets half-draped over their bodies, silence filled the room.
But it wasn't peace.
Daisy's eyes burned.
She'd given in to the very man who might've been involved in her father's death.
And now, more than ever she didn't know if it was lust, addiction, or something dangerously close to love.
She was still lying there when Xander got up and pulled something out of a drawer.
A flash drive.
He stared at it for a long second.
Then looked back at her.
"If I showed you what's on this," he said quietly, "you'd never look at me the same way again."
She sat up, heart pounding.
"What is it?"
He clenched his jaw.
"Proof."
"Proof of what?"
He looked away.
"That I wasn't the one who ordered your father's death."