The Cross Industries building pierced the morning sky like a glass and steel dagger, its reflective surface throwing the sun's rays back at the city below with almost aggressive intensity. Elena stood on the sidewalk across the street, her coffee growing cold in her hands as she stared up at the forty-story monument to legitimate business built on illegitimate foundations. Somewhere behind those pristine windows, Damien Cross was conducting his morning routine—probably signing contracts that laundered money and ordering executions with the same casual efficiency.
She'd spent the sleepless hours after their encounter researching everything she could find about Cross Industries. On paper, it was exactly what it claimed to be: a diversified holdings company with interests in real estate, shipping, and waste management. The kind of boring corporate entity that made money quietly and contributed to mayoral campaigns without drawing attention. But Elena had learned to read between the lines, to see the patterns that others missed.
The waste management contracts all seemed to coincide with unexplained disappearances. The shipping manifests had curious gaps that suggested cargo that didn't officially exist. And the real estate acquisitions followed a pattern of intimidation and sudden seller desperation that painted a picture darker than any legitimate business had a right to possess.
Her phone buzzed against her palm, dragging her attention back to the present. A text from her editor: *Where's the Martinez piece? Desk needs copy by noon.*
Elena's jaw tightened. Marcus Williams had been breathing down her neck about the Martinez story for weeks, pushing her to either produce something publishable or drop it entirely. He didn't understand that some stories couldn't be rushed, that the truth had its own timeline that didn't bend to editorial deadlines. But without the lighter, without that crucial piece of evidence, she had nothing but circumstantial connections and a gut feeling that would never make it past the Tribune's legal department.
She crossed the street with determined strides, her heels clicking against the pavement like bullets being loaded into a chamber. The lobby of Cross Industries was exactly what she'd expected—all marble and brass and intimidating modern art that probably cost more than most people made in a year. The receptionist behind the polished granite desk looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine, all sharp cheekbones and perfectly applied red lipstick.
"I'd like to see Mr. Cross," Elena announced, approaching the desk with more confidence than she felt.
The receptionist's smile was professional and completely empty of warmth. "Do you have an appointment, Miss...?"
"Vasquez. Elena Vasquez. And no, I don't have an appointment." Elena leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But I think he'll want to see me. Tell him it's about Tommy Martinez."
Something flickered in the receptionist's perfectly made-up eyes—recognition, perhaps, or fear. She picked up her phone with manicured fingers and spoke in hushed tones that Elena couldn't quite make out. After a moment, she hung up and looked at Elena with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
"Top floor. The elevator bank is to your right. Mr. Cross will see you now."
The elevator ride to the fortieth floor felt like ascending into the clouds, the city shrinking below until it looked like a child's toy set spread out for her amusement. Elena watched the numbers climb and tried to steady her nerves. She'd been in dangerous situations before—had interviewed gang leaders and corrupt politicians, had walked through crime scenes still slick with blood. But something about Damien Cross made her feel off-balance in a way that had nothing to do with professional intimidation and everything to do with the way her pulse quickened when she thought about his hands touching hers.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing a reception area that managed to be both luxurious and subtly threatening. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, broken up by windows that offered a god's-eye view of the city below. A woman who looked like she could break necks as efficiently as she could take dictation gestured Elena toward a set of double doors at the far end of the room.
Damien's office was a shrine to controlled power. Floor-to-ceiling windows formed two walls, filling the space with natural light that somehow seemed to bend around him where he sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit that fit him like it had been sculpted rather than tailored, and his dark hair caught the morning light in a way that made Elena's fingers itch to touch it.
He didn't look up immediately when she entered, instead finishing whatever he was reading with the kind of deliberate patience that spoke of absolute confidence. Elena used the time to study him, noting the way he held himself—straight-backed but relaxed, like a predator that knew it had no natural enemies. When he finally raised his eyes to meet hers, she felt that same electric shock she'd experienced in the alley, only magnified by the intimacy of the enclosed space.
"Miss Vasquez," he said, rising from his chair with fluid grace. "I have to admit, I didn't expect to see you again so soon. Most people who have midnight encounters in dark alleys tend to reassess their life choices in the morning light."
"I'm not most people," Elena replied, stepping further into the office. The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded unnaturally final. "And I don't scare easily."
"No," Damien agreed, moving around the desk to lean against its front edge. The position brought him closer to her, close enough that she could see the way his shirt stretched across his chest, the subtle play of muscle beneath the expensive fabric. "I don't imagine you do. It takes a special kind of courage to walk into a lion's den armed with nothing but righteous indignation."
"I'm not here to trade metaphors with you," Elena said, forcing herself to meet his gaze steadily. "I'm here about Tommy Martinez. About what really happened to him."
Damien's expression didn't change, but Elena caught a subtle shift in his posture, a tightening around his eyes that suggested she'd struck a nerve. "Tommy Martinez killed himself. The police report was quite clear on that point."
"The police report was bought and paid for, just like half the cops in this city." Elena took a step closer, close enough now that she could smell his cologne again—that intoxicating blend of cedar and danger that made her thoughts scatter like leaves in a strong wind. "But we both know what really happened, don't we? Tommy found out about the shipping manifests, about what was really in those containers coming through the port. He was going to expose everything, so you had him killed."
"That's a serious accusation," Damien said, his voice deceptively calm. "The kind that could get a person in a lot of trouble if they couldn't back it up with proof."
"I had proof," Elena shot back. "Until you took it from me."
Damien pushed away from the desk, moving with the kind of predatory grace that made Elena's breath catch in her throat. He stopped just inches from her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. This close, she could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, the way his jaw tightened when he was thinking.
"You think you can just waltz in here and demand answers?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low rumble that she felt as much as heard. "You think you can play games with people like me and walk away unscathed?"
"I'm not afraid of you," Elena said, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew they weren't entirely true. She was afraid—but not in the way he probably intended. She was afraid of the way her body responded to his proximity, the way her pulse jumped when he looked at her like he was deciding whether to kiss her or kill her.
Damien reached out slowly, his fingers barely brushing against her cheek. The touch was feather-light, almost reverent, but it sent shockwaves through her entire nervous system. "You should be," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Do you have any idea what I could do to you? What I want to do to you?"
Elena's breath hitched, her professional composure cracking under the weight of his proximity. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the way his pupils dilated as he looked at her. This was dangerous territory, the kind that could destroy careers and lives with equal efficiency. But she couldn't seem to make herself step away.
"I know what you are," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I know what you've done."
"Do you?" Damien's hand slid down to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. "Because what I am, Miss Vasquez, is a man who takes what he wants. And right now, what I want is standing very close to me, smelling like vanilla and defiance, pretending she's not affected by this."
Elena's heart was hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it. Every rational thought in her head screamed at her to leave, to run before she found herself in deeper water than she could swim out of. But her body had other ideas, leaning into his touch despite her better judgment.
"This is insane," she breathed, but she didn't pull away.
Damien's smile was sharp and dangerous, full of promises that both thrilled and terrified her. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke. "Sanity is overrated. Tell me, Elena—may I call you Elena?—what do you really want? Because I don't think it's just a story anymore."
The sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. She closed her eyes, trying to center herself, trying to remember why she was here. But all she could think about was the way his breath felt against her skin, the way his fingers were still tangled in her hair like he owned her.
"I want the truth," she managed, opening her eyes to find him watching her with an intensity that made her knees weak.
"The truth," Damien repeated, his free hand coming up to trace the line of her collarbone through her shirt. "The truth is that you walked into my office looking like sin wrapped in a business suit, asking questions that could get you killed. The truth is that I should have you eliminated just for knowing my name. But instead, I find myself wondering what you'd look like spread across my desk, begging for something entirely different than answers."
Elena's breath caught, heat pooling low in her belly at the raw hunger in his voice. This was wrong on every level she could think of, but she couldn't deny the way her body responded to his words, to his touch. "You're trying to distract me."
"Is it working?" Damien asked, his thumb stroking across her pulse point. "Because I can feel your heart racing, Elena. I can see the way you're looking at me. You want me to touch you as much as I want to touch you."
Before Elena could formulate a response, before she could even decide if she wanted to, Damien's mouth was on hers. The kiss was everything she'd imagined and nothing she'd prepared for—demanding and possessive and so skilled it made her dizzy. His hand tightened in her hair, angling her head exactly where he wanted it, while his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him until there was no space left between them.
Elena melted into him despite every warning bell going off in her head. She could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the controlled strength in the way he held her. When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she opened for him without thinking, a soft moan escaping her throat.
The sound seemed to inflame him further. He backed her against the wall, his body pinning her there while his hands roamed with expert precision. Elena's rational mind had completely shut down, replaced by pure sensation and want. She could feel his arousal pressing against her hip, could hear the way his breathing had turned ragged.
"Tell me to stop," Damien growled against her lips, but his hands were already sliding under her jacket, fingers skating across ribs covered only by thin silk. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
Elena opened her mouth to do exactly that, to remember who she was and why she was here. But the words that came out were entirely different. "Don't stop."
Damien's eyes flashed with something primal and possessive. He captured her mouth again, this kiss even more demanding than the first. Elena could feel herself drowning, losing herself in the heat and pressure of his body against hers. This was madness, but it was the kind of madness that felt like coming alive after years of sleepwalking.
A sharp knock on the office door shattered the moment like glass hitting concrete. They broke apart, both breathing hard, Elena's lipstick smeared across Damien's mouth in a way that made her stomach clench with renewed desire.
"Mr. Cross?" came a voice from the other side of the door. "Your ten o'clock is here."
Damien closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw working as he regained control. When he opened them again, the predator was back, though Elena could still see the heat simmering beneath the surface.
"Give me five minutes," he called out, his voice steady despite the passion that had consumed them moments before.
Elena straightened her jacket with shaking hands, trying to piece together her professional composure. Her lips felt swollen, her hair was mussed, and she was quite certain she looked exactly like a woman who'd just been thoroughly kissed by a dangerous man.
Damien watched her efforts with that dangerous smile, reaching out to thumb away a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth. "This conversation isn't over, Elena."
"Yes, it is," she said, but even she could hear how breathless she sounded. "This was a mistake."
"Was it?" Damien stepped back, but his eyes never left her face. "Because it felt pretty inevitable to me."
Elena moved toward the door, needing distance before she did something even more stupid than she already had. But Damien's voice stopped her before she could reach the handle.
"Elena." She turned back despite herself. He was leaning against his desk again, looking perfectly composed except for the storm in his blue eyes. "You should be."
"Should be what?"
His smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Afraid of me. Because next time you walk into my world, I might not let you walk back out."