The rain had started twenty minutes ago, a sudden, violent downpour that lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Grey Knight's library. The sound was a dull roar, sealing the room off from the rest of the world, creating a vacuum where time seemed to suspend itself.
He had invited her to his library and while she was still dazed by his sudden question about her size of lingerie, she followed him. It was stupid because this man was a murder suspect, asking his defense attorney the size of her underwear. It was her moment to flee but she supposed his charm had an hand in it. His charm was the hypnosis to why she hadn't escaped yet.
Lauren Hayes stood in the center of the library, her handbag clutched in her hand like a shield. She had been in this house for an hour, and they had moved from the dining room to this cavernous space, yet she felt like she knew less now than she had when she walked in.
The library was a masterpiece of intimidation. It was two stories high, lined with dark walnut shelves that held thousands of books. A rolling ladder sat in the corner. The lighting was low, amber lamps had long, stretching shadows across the Persian rugs. It smelled of old paper, leather, and the lingering scent of the storm outside.
Grey Knight stood by the fireplace. A fire wasn't lit, but he stared into the black grate as if watching invisible flames. He had removed his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a leather armchair. His white shirt was stark against the gloom, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were corded with muscle.
"You're pacing, Ms. Hayes," he said, his back still turned to her.
Lauren froze. She hadn't realized she was moving until he pointed it out. She stopped, forcing her heels to plant firmly on the rug.
"I am trying to build a timeline, Mr. Knight," she said, her voice echoing slightly in the large room. "And you are speaking in riddles. We have the police report. We have the autopsy. Now, about this tape…"
"The tape is the truth," Grey said, turning around slowly. The dim light caught the silver ring in his left eye, making him look less human and more like a predator catching a scent. "But truth is subjective, isn't it? To the police, a hand around a throat is murder. To Elara, it was oxygen."
Lauren felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. "We are not discussing philosophy. We are discussing a jury. Twelve normal people who go to grocery stores and watch sitcoms. They won't understand 'oxygen.' They will see violence."
"Then you must make them understand."
"I can't defend what I haven't seen," Lauren countered, her frustration spiking. "You keep talking about this footage, about the nature of your relationship, but you haven't shown me anything. You're asking me to walk into a courtroom blind."
Grey pushed off the mantlepiece and began to walk toward her. He moved with that same unnerving silence, a ghost in a bespoke shirt.
"You're afraid," he stated softly.
"I'm a lawyer. I'm not afraid of evidence."
"You're not afraid of the evidence. You're afraid of the man." He stopped three feet from her. It was close enough to smell the scotch and musk on him, close enough to see the individual lashes framing those devastating eyes. "You look at me and you wonder if I did it. You look at my hands,"—he raised his hands, large and elegant—"and you wonder if they are capable of snapping a neck."
Lauren held her ground, though every instinct she had was screaming at her to step back. "My personal opinion doesn't matter. My job is to create doubt."
"Your opinion is the only thing that matters," Grey corrected, his voice dropping. "Because if you don't believe it, you can't sell it. You are a terrible liar, Lauren. I saw that in the Sterling case file. You couldn't bury the evidence because your conscience got in the way. You wear your heart on your sleeve. Or, in this case…"
He took a step closer. He was now invading her personal space, towering over her, heat radiating from him.
"…on your skin."
Lauren's breath hitched. She tightened her grip on her handbag. "Mr. Knight, please maintain a professional distance."
"We are past professional," he murmured. "You agreed to take this case. That makes you mine until the verdict comes in. And I need my defender to be enlightened."
He reached out. Lauren flinched, expecting him to grab her arm or her shoulder. But he didn't. Instead, his hand hovered near her face, his fingers tracing the air inches from her cheekbone without making contact. The sensation was maddening—a ghost touch that made her skin prickle with anticipation.
"To defend a monster, you have to understand why the victim went into the monster's lair willingly," Grey whispered. "You have to understand the pull. The addiction."
"You're trying to manipulate me," Lauren said, though her voice lacked its usual bite. It came out breathy, betraying her.
"I am trying to open your eyes," he corrected. "Elara wasn't a victim in this room. She was a queen. She held all the power because she controlled how much pain she could take. She gave me the gift of her submission. Do you know what that feels like, Lauren? To let go? To stop fighting the world, to stop fighting for your career, to stop fighting your boss, and just… exist?"
His words wrapped around her mind like smoke. He was picking apart her life, her stressors, the weight she carried every day. He was offering a twisted kind of relief.
"I… I don't know what you mean," she stammered.
"Yes, you do."
Grey took the handbag from her hand. He didn't yank it; he simply laid his hand over hers, his fingers warm and rough, and the surprise of the contact made her loosen her grip. He set the bag on a nearby table without breaking eye contact.
"You are exhausted," he said softly. "I can see it in the tension of your jaw. You spend your whole life fighting. Fighting traffic, fighting for recognition, fighting for that little boy you dropped off at school."
Lauren's eyes widened. "How do you—"
"I know everything," he cut her off gently. "It's my business to know. And it must be so heavy. Carrying all of that."
He stepped in, closing the final inch of distance. His body brushed against hers. Lauren felt her knees go weak. This was wrong. This was dangerous. This was her client.
But she didn't move.
"What are you doing?" she whispered.
"Showing you," he replied.
Grey's hands came up, sliding slowly up her arms. His touch was firm and possessive. He squeezed her biceps gently, testing the muscle, before moving higher to her shoulders. He began to massage the knot of tension at the base of her neck.
Lauren let out a small, involuntary sound—half gasp, half moan. It felt incredible. It felt terrifying.
"You see?" Grey murmured, his mouth hovering near her ear. "Your body knows what it wants even if your mind is screaming 'lawyer.' You are reacting to me. Your pulse is hammering against your skin like a trapped bird."
He moved his hands down, sliding them over the lapels of her blazer. He slipped his fingers beneath the fabric, finding the silk of her blouse.