The morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the Thorne master suite, casting a cold, judgmental glare over the wreckage of the night. The room was a battlefield of discarded clothes, the emerald silk dress crumpled like a dead leaf near the foot of the bed.
Dominic stirred, his muscles aching with a rare, heavy fatigue. For the first time in his adult life, he felt physically drained—not from work, but from a hunger that had refused to be satisfied. He reached out across the silk sheets, his palm searching for the warmth of the body that had anchored him all night.
The space was empty. The sheets were cold.
Dominic sat up abruptly, his dark hair falling over eyes that were instantly sharp and predatory. He looked at the pillow beside him; the faint, lingering scent of vanilla and sweat was the only evidence she had ever been there. But as his gaze drifted lower, his heart skipped a beat.
In the center of the bed, stark and undeniable against the white fabric, was a small, dried smear of crimson.
He stared at it for a long, silent minute. A virgin. He had spent the night—four, five, maybe six rounds of feral, uninhibited passion—with a woman who had never known a man's touch. He remembered the way she had trembled, the way her body had felt like a tightening vise around him, and the way she had eventually matched his rhythm with a desperate, heartbreaking intensity.
He cursed under his breath, a mixture of guilt and a terrifying, territorial surge of pride. He had been her first. And she had run.
Two hours later, Dominic stood behind his mahogany desk in the Thorne Tower, looking out over the Manhattan skyline. He hadn't touched his coffee. He hadn't looked at his emails. He was still wearing the same watch from the night before, his skin still feeling the phantom tingle of her touch.
The heavy oak door swung open without the formality of a knock—a privilege reserved for the only man in the city who didn't fear Dominic's shadow. Marcus walked in, tossing a tablet onto the mahogany desk with the practiced ease of a brother rather than a subordinate.
"The merger papers for the Tokyo account are ready for your signature, sir," Marcus said, his voice a perfect, clinical monotone.
Dominic didn't turn around. "Who was she?"
Marcus paused, his stylus hovering over the screen. "I'm sorry, sir?"
"The woman from last night. At the estate. I want her name, her address, her family history. Everything."
Marcus adjusted his glasses, a flicker of surprise crossing his disciplined features. "Sir, I believe there's been a misunderstanding. Per your standing orders for 'weekend companions,' the transaction was handled through a third-party agency with a strict non-disclosure and no-contact clause. The funds were wired at 5:00 AM. The file is closed."
Dominic turned then, his eyes burning with a cold fire that made Marcus take a half-step back. "Reopen it."
"With all due respect, Sir," Marcus said, dropping the formal 'sir' as he realized the gravity of his boss's mood. "It's unlike you to follow up on a lady you've just spent a night with. Usually, you don't even remember their hair color by breakfast. You've always said that once the sun comes up, the business is finished."
"It's different this time," Dominic hissed, stepping around the desk like a wolf pacing his cage. "She's different."
"She was a professional hire," Marcus reminded him, his tone becoming cautious. "A no-strings-attached arrangement. You pay for the pleasure, they provide the discretion. To pursue her now would be a breach of the very rules you wrote to protect your reputation. Especially with the wedding to Isabella only months away—"
"I make the rules!" Dominic roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the sterile office. "I don't care about the agency. I don't care about the NDA. And right now, Marcus, I don't give a damn about Isabella. Just make me see her again!"
Marcus stood his ground, though his jaw was tight. "Sir, she's a ghost. She gave a fake name to the agency, she used a burner account for the wire. She clearly doesn't want to be found. She took the money and she ran. Doesn't that tell you something?"
Dominic walked to the window, his reflection in the glass looking like a man he didn't recognize—a man obsessed. He thought of the blood on the sheets. He thought of the way she had bitten her lip to stay silent. She hadn't been a professional; she had been a girl in a trap, and he had been the one to spring it.
"She thinks she can take what's mine and disappear?" Dominic whispered, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet range that was far more terrifying than his shout. "She thinks she can pay a debt with her soul and then walk away into the crowd?"
He turned back to Marcus, a dark, twisted smile touching his lips—the smile of a hunter who had found a scent he liked.
"She can hide in the shadows of this city. She can change her name. She can run to the other side of the world," Dominic said, his voice trembling with a terrifying, singular devotion. "But Marcus, tell the extraction teams to get ready. I don't care what it costs. I don't care how many laws I have to break."
He leaned in close, his shadow engulfing his assistant.
"I am the King of this city, and she is carrying the mark of my night. I will find her... and when I do, she will realize that the money wasn't a gift. It was a down payment on the rest of her life."
Marcus looked at the madness in his employer's eyes and felt a shiver of true fear. "And if she refuses to come back?"
Dominic picked up a crystal paperweight and crushed it into the palm of his hand until the edges bit into his skin.
"Then I'll give her a reason to beg for my mercy."