Desperation had a taste. It was copper and ash, coating the back of Elena Vane's throat as she stood before the heavy mahogany doors of the VIP suite.
The sign on the door was discreet, gold lettering on black wood: Private. Obsidian Club.
Inside sat the only man in the city who had enough money to save her family, and enough power to destroy what was left of it.
Julian Kincaid.
They called him "The Wolf of Wall Street," but that was too polite. Wolves hunted in packs. Julian Kincaid hunted alone. He was a billionaire industrialist by day and a kingpin of the city's underground by night. And tonight, Elena was about to walk into his cage.
Do it for Leo, she told herself, clutching her clutch so tightly her knuckles turned white. Five million dollars. That's the price of your brother's life.
She didn't knock. If she knocked, she would lose her nerve.
Elena pushed the doors open and stepped into the dim, chilled air of the suite.
The room smelled of expensive scotch, old leather, and danger. It was vast, lit only by low amber recessed lighting that cast long, sharp shadows against the walls. In the center of the room, on a sprawling velvet sofa, sat a man.
He didn't look up when she entered. He didn't flinch. He was swirling a glass of amber liquid, his attention focused on the way the light caught the alcohol.
He was terrifyingly beautiful. That was the first thing that hit her—a physical blow to the chest. He wore a charcoal suit that cost more than her former home, the jacket discarded, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal a glimpse of tanned, corded muscle. His dark hair was slightly messy, as if he'd run frustration through it with his fingers.
"I didn't order room service," a voice said.
It wasn't a shout. It was a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and travel straight up Elena's legs. It was a voice made for commands and bedroom whispers.
Elena forced her legs to move, her heels clicking sharply on the marble floor. "I'm not room service, Mr. Kincaid."
Julian Kincaid stopped swirling his glass. Slowly, with the lethargic grace of a predator who knows he has nowhere to be, he lifted his head.
Elena's breath hitched.
His eyes were the color of storm clouds—grey, cold, and piercing. When his gaze landed on her, she felt a physical sensation, as if he had reached out and stroked a finger down her spine. It was an invasive, heavy look that stripped away her defenses.
"Elena Vane," he murmured, recognizing her. "The fallen princess of the Vane Empire."
He set the glass down with a sharp clink. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a trespasser?"
"I have a proposition," Elena said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound strong.
Julian laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound. He stood up, and the room suddenly felt very small. He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that blocked out the dim light. He began to walk toward her.
One step. Two steps.
The air in the room shifted. It grew heavy, charged with static. Elena wanted to run, but her feet were rooted to the spot.
"A proposition?" Julian stopped just inches from her. He was so close she could smell him—a heady mix of sandalwood, crisp rain, and raw, masculine heat. It was intoxicating. "You have nothing left to trade, Miss Vane. Your father's company is bankrupt. Your assets are frozen."
"I have myself," she whispered.
Julian's eyes narrowed, darkening to the color of charcoal. He tilted his head, studying her face. "You're selling yourself?"
"I need five million dollars. Tonight."
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he raised his hand. Elena flinched, expecting a blow, but his fingers merely grazed the sensitive skin of her jawline.
The touch was electric.
A jolt of heat shot straight from her jaw to her core, causing a pulsating ache to bloom between her thighs. It was a traitorous, shocking reaction. She should be terrified, yet her body was humming, leaning into his warmth. His skin was rough, calloused—a stark contrast to her softness.
"You are beautiful," Julian murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her bottom lip, dragging it down slightly to expose the pink wetness inside. "Historically innocent. Pure."
His voice dropped an octave, turning into a husky rasp that made her knees weak.
"But five million is a high price for one night, Princess."
"I'm not offering one night," Elena managed to say, her breath coming in shallow, ragged pants as his thumb continued to torment her lip. "I'm offering... whatever you want."
Julian froze. His pupils dilated, swallowing the grey iris until his eyes were black pits of hunger. The air between them crackled, thick enough to choke on.
He stepped closer, his body pressing against hers, hard plains of muscle against her soft curves. She could feel the heat radiating off him, searing through her thin dress. She felt scorched, branded by his proximity.
"Whatever I want?" he repeated, his voice dangerous.
"Yes."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, sending a violent shiver cascading down her back.
"Careful, Elena," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over her neck. "I don't want a mistress. I don't want a toy."
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, and she saw the trap snapping shut.
"I need a wife. And if you sign a contract with me... you don't just give me your body." His hand slid from her jaw to wrap around the back of her neck, his grip possessive, firm, and terrifyingly hot. "You give me your soul. Total submission. Every night."
He squeezed gently, tilting her head back, exposing her throat to him.
"Do we have a deal?"