The silver light of a Vancouver morning filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long, ethereal shadows across the king-sized bed. The storm from the night before had retreated, leaving behind a world that was crisp, silent, and deceptively peaceful.
Dermin Doren was the first to wake. He didn't move. He simply lay there, his lungs expanding and contracting in a slow, controlled rhythm, feeling the weight of the woman anchored against his side. Hannah was finally asleep, though it was a fitful, haunted kind of rest. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her long lashes casting delicate shadows against her pale, porcelain skin. Even in sleep, she looked braced for a blow, her small hands balled into tight white fists against his chest.
He watched her for a long time, the cold, calculated mask of the CEO completely gone. In its place was something raw—something ancient and possessive. He leaned in, the scent of her hair—a mix of expensive hotel soap and the fading metallic tang of the prison—filling his senses.
Very gently, he pressed his lips to her forehead. It was a touch so light it was almost a ghost of a gesture.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the quiet of the room, his voice a ragged, low vibration. "I am so sorry for everything, Hannah."
He looked at her with an intensity that bordered on worship. "I will make sure you have the best life," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "I will build a world where nothing can ever hurt you again."
The protective instinct flared in him like a physical heat. He looked at her fragile frame and felt a sudden, violent urge to shield her from the very world he had conquered. He should have gotten up; he had a multibillion-dollar empire waiting for his signature, a board of directors that feared his silence, and a schedule packed with clinical precision.
Instead, he stayed. He shifted his weight, his arm tightening around her waist, pulling her even closer until there was no inch of space left between them. He wanted to feel the beat of her heart against his own, to fuse her existence into his so completely that she could never drift away again.
Hannah stirred.
The sensation of being trapped, of the air being squeezed from her lungs by a wall of solid muscle and heat, triggered a primal reflex. Her eyes snapped open—not with the softness of a morning wake-up, but with the jagged alertness of an inmate expecting a cell shake-down.
"Get... off," she gasped, her voice thick with sleep and panic.
She twisted her head, her mind still foggy from the late hour she had finally succumbed to exhaustion. She tried to push him away, her hands flat against his chest, her lips parting to let out a sharp protest.
But as she lunged upward to shove him, the world slowed down.
Her lips hit something warm, soft, and terrifyingly familiar. Because Dermin had been leaning over her, his face inches from hers, her sudden movement drove her mouth directly onto his.
It wasn't a kiss of passion; it was a collision of fate. For a fraction of a second, the world went silent. The heat of him, the taste of his skin, and the sheer shock of the contact sent a jolt of electricity through Hannah's entire body.
The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. I am kissing him. I am kissing the monster.
With a strangled cry of pure horror, Hannah didn't just push—she detonated. She threw her entire weight backward, her limbs flailing as she scrambled to get away from the contact. In her desperation, she overshot the edge of the massive bed.
Thud.
She landed hard on the polished mahogany floor, her backside hitting the wood with a jarring impact that sent a shockwave up her spine. She scrambled backward on her hands and knees until her back hit the cold stone of the fireplace, her chest heaving, her fingers pressed against her lips as if she could wipe away the sensation of him.
Dermin didn't move from the bed. He propped himself up on one elbow, his dark hair tousled, looking like a god of mischief in the morning light. A slow, infuriatingly handsome smirk spread across his face.
"Well," he purred, his eyes dancing with a wicked light. "Thank you for the morning kiss, Hannah. I must say, you're much more affectionate in the AM than I anticipated. Though, I didn't realize it would be an 'offer' I couldn't refuse."
"I didn't... you...!" Hannah shrieked, her face turning a deep, burning scarlet. "It was an accident! I hate you! I was trying to get away from you!"
Dermin laughed—a deep, rich sound that echoed off the high ceilings. He sat up, the silk of his gown sliding over his shoulders, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He looked down at her, huddled on the floor like a wounded cat.
"You jump like a frog when you're startled, did you know that?" he joked, his voice light and teasing, as if they were an ordinary couple sharing a playful morning. "One second you're pinning me to the pillows with your lips, and the next, you're halfway across the room."
He stood up, his tall, imposing frame casting a long shadow over her. He started walking toward the bathroom, but he paused beside her, leaning down just enough to look her in the eye.
"You should be more careful, Hannah," he said, his voice dropping to that low, seductive hum that made her skin crawl. "I'd hate for you to get those sexy bums of yours hurt on the floor. I have plans for them."
He winked—a gesture so arrogant, so typical of the man who owned everything he saw—and turned away. Hannah watched him disappear into the bathroom, the sound of the rainfall shower starting up a moment later.
She remained on the floor, trembling with a mix of fury and genuine, bone-deep terror. Her backside throbbed from the fall, but it was the ghost of his lips on hers that felt like the real injury. She looked at the closed bathroom door, her eyes filling with tears of frustration.
"I'm going to kill him," she whispered to the empty room, her voice shaking. "I'm going to find a way to break him into a thousand pieces."