Darkness fell as Clara silenced the bedside control panel. Sebastian's breath hitched when her fingers brushed his—a static shock that traveled up his spine.
Scratchy terrycloth, he registered with disgust. Tomorrow he'd have Kingsley incinerate every Imperial bathrobe. His hand shot out, ripping the offending fabric down to her waist. Cool air kissed Clara's exposed skin as Sebastian buried his face in the junction of her neck and shoulder. Orange blossom scent flooded his senses—antidote.
Clara tensed. "Why me?" The question escaped like a trapped bird.
Sebastian's palm slid up her thigh. "You tell me." His thumb pressed the delicate inner flesh. "Why breach the dragon's lair?"
Survival, Clara almost said. Because you incinerate what you can't possess. Instead, she offered syrup: "What woman could resist you?"
"Liar." His fingers clamped—a human vise on tender muscle.
Pain crystallized her choice: Truth or oblivion. Clara rolled toward him, threading arms around his neck. Her lips found his in clumsy collision—an amateur's first strike.
Sebastian seized her skull. Mistake, his kiss declared. Never challenge wildfire. His tongue conquered as his body caged hers.
"Still hurt?" The growl vibrated against her mouth.
"Yes." Clara gasped as he shifted. "But I yield."
Dawn gilded Sebastian's sleeping form. Clara cataloged the impossible:
Fact 1: Inflammation reduced to dull throb (Manhattan General's ointment deserved Nobel)
Fact 2: Sebastian's hands had gentled during the night (delusion?)
Fact 3: She'd kissed Death and survived
His eyelashes—obscenely long for a corporate executioner—fanned cheeks still flushed from exertion. Why me? The question echoed. Not her beauty (Valentina Dubois existed). Not her pedigree (Windsor disgrace trailed her).
Then it struck: She was the ultimate luxury—a woman who refused to want him.
Her phone glowed with yesterday's transfers:
$400,000.00 FROM HARTWELL CAPITAL
Blood money for bodily surrender. Clara imagined confessing to future children: Your inheritance funded Mommy's corporate whoring.
Fingers flew across the screen.
$400,000.00 TRANSFERRED TO HARTWELL CAPITALChime.
Sebastian's eyes snapped open. The notification reflected in irises gone arctic. He sat up, sheets pooling at his waist. Michelangelo musculature mocked her shame.
"Compensating me post-coitus?" His voice could frost champagne. "Am I your gigolo, Clara?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. "The sum was... disproportionate to services rendered."
"Services." Sebastian repeated the word like poisoned candy. He traced her collarbone. "What exactly are you bargaining for? A ring? A coronation?"
Clara recoiled. "I want nothing!"
"Liar." He lunged, pinning her wrists. Morning light gilded the bite marks on her hips—his signature. "The woman who returns $400k seeks greater currency." His hips ground against hers. "Power? Or just more of this?"
Clara felt his arousal—a brand through thin cotton. Christ, I'll need a Plan B stockpile.
"Since you prepaid..." Sebastian nipped her earlobe. "Open."
Post-shower, Clara assembled armor:
Windsor composure (chin tilted 15°)
Hartwell efficiency (suit steamed, reports collated)
Emotional detachment (see items 1 & 2)
"Morning medical leave request," she announced. "One hour for wardrobe remediation."
Sebastian didn't glance up from his Bloomberg terminal. "Denied."
Clara's mask slipped. "But—"
"Your closet's here." He gestured to walk-in dressing room. Inside hung ten Hermès suits—her exact measurements. "Select one. Burn yesterday's rags."
Psychological warfare, Clara realized. Erase her past, wear his livery. She chose charcoal wool—funereal armor.
As she reached the suite door, familiar voices froze her:
"—swear to God, Lucian, if he's dissected another woman like a biology project—"
Kingsley Shaw and Lucian Rhodes occupied the Sovereign Lounge's Chesterfield sofa. Their gazes snapped to her—rumpled hair, Sebastian's monogrammed towel peeking from her Birkin.
Lucian whistled. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty." He stage-whispered to Kingsley: "Where's Valentina?"
Kingsley sighed. "Upgraded."
Lucian's grin turned wolfish. "So. How many rounds did His Majesty demand?"
Clara's neck combusted.
The suite door hissed open. Sebastian leaned against the frame—savior and executioner. "Five last night." His eyes locked on Clara. "Seven including dawn service."
Lucian choked on espresso. "Seven? Christ, Hartwell—starting a friction fire?"
Sebastian's smile promised violence. "Want the prequel? Two nights ago, she wept through the first three before passing out. Woke up begging for more."
Clara fled to the elevator, their laughter chasing her like hounds.