Chapter 11
The ache in my ass is a persistent, smug little reminder as I limp my way across the city, a private souvenir that makes me smirk every time I shift my weight wrong.
It’s been three days since I slipped out of Suha’s bed, and the physical echo of his rut is finally starting to fade from a screaming protest to a dull, satisfied throb.
The problem is, the other ache isn’t fading at all.
It’s the bond. It sits in my chest like a fist wrapped around my sternum, tightening whenever I think about him, which is, annoyingly, all the damn time.
It’s not just a craving for his knot or his pheromones, though fuck knows my body is throwing a tantrum for those, too.
It’s... missing him. Missing the sharp cut of his voice, the way his eyes go dark right before he loses his temper, the sheer, unapologetic weight of his presence.
I’ve spent my whole life being the most dangerous thing in any room, and now I’m hooked on the one person who makes me feel like prey.
It’s pathetic. It’s also the most fun I’ve ever had.
Which is why, after laying low for a few days to let the literal heat die down, I get this itch under my skin. A game isn’t any fun if you don’t poke the bear. Running away was one thing. Coming back just to be a nuisance? That’s the good stuff.
Wooil’s hacking skills come in handy again.
It takes him less than an hour to dig up the details of some corporate charity dinner Suha’s company is sponsoring tonight at one of those stupidly tall hotels in Gangnam.
The Phantom Lotus Syndicate, putting on its respectable lotus-face for the public.
The mental image of Suha in a tuxedo, making nice with politicians and CEOs while probably fantasizing about breaking their fingers, is too delicious to pass up.
The hotel looms over Gangnam like a glass dagger. I lean against a lamppost across the street, watching the stream of black cars disgorge an array of similarly dressed people. Tuxedos and gowns, diamonds catching the city glow. Suha’s kind of crowd, or at least, the crowd he wears like a mask.
I don’t bother with the front. Too many eyes, too many guys in suits with earpieces who look like they chew nails for breakfast. I circle the block, slipping into the service alley that runs behind the building.
It smells of dumpsters and diesel, a welcome slap of reality after the perfume and money out front.
A metal staircase zigzags up the back, leading to a series of terraces.
I take the steps two at a time, my boots echoing softly on the grated metal.
The third terrace up is smaller, secluded, shielded from the main event by a wall of frosted glass. And there he is.
Suha stands with his back to me, one hand braced on the railing, the other bringing a cigarette to his lips.
The city sprawls behind him, a tapestry of neon and shadow.
He’s still in his tuxedo jacket, but he’s loosened the bow tie, and the top buttons of his shirt are open.
He looks less like a CEO and more like a king surveying a kingdom.
The perfect picture of controlled power, alone in the dark.
My footsteps are silent on the concrete. I come up right beside him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his body in the cool night air. He doesn’t startle. He doesn’t even turn his head. He just takes a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the dimness.
I reach over and pluck it straight from between his fingers.
He finally looks at me then. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes do.
They sharpen, going from distant annoyance to focused irritation.
I bring the filter to my lips, where his mouth was just a second ago, and inhale.
The smoke is harsh and familiar. I blow it out in a thin stream toward the skyline.
“Still mad at me?” I ask, my voice a low rasp.
He watches the smoke dissipate. “What the fuck do you want?”
I shrug, taking another drag. “Just checking in. Not holding it against me for running off again, are you? Your rut was over. Figured you’d had your fill.”
He snatches the cigarette back from my fingers, his movements quick and precise. He takes a final, deep pull before flicking the butt over the railing. It arcs down into the darkness below. “Have you never heard of bedside manners?”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Bedside manners? You chained me to a bedpost and locked me in a cage. I don’t think Emily Post covers that chapter.”
“Get lost, then.” His voice is flat, final. He turns his body slightly away from me, presenting his profile as he stares back out at the city. A clear dismissal.
The bond in my chest gives a sharp, painful tug. I ignore it, leaning my hip against the cold railing. “Aw,” I coo, letting the mockery drip from the word. “Were your feelings hurt? Did I wound your delicate alpha pride by not sticking around for cuddles and pillow talk?”
His jaw works, a muscle ticking near his temple. His eyes cut toward me, dark and dangerous, but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t rise to it. He just turns fully away, his broad shoulders a wall of expensive black wool, and acts like I’ve ceased to exist.
I push off the railing to step into his space again. He doesn’t move, but I can feel the tension coiling in him, a spring pressed tight.
“Look,” I say, my tone shifting into something softer, almost conciliatory.
I let my gaze drift over his face, taking in the tight line of his mouth, the storm brewing in his dark eyes.
“There’s a hotel right around the corner.
We could get a room. Let me make it up to you. Help you... unwind. Properly.”
His head turns slowly. The look he gives me isn’t just disgusted; it’s incredulous, like I’ve just suggested we go build a sandcastle together. “Not a chance.”
I don’t back off. If anything, I lean in closer, until the expensive wool of his tuxedo jacket brushes my worn leather one.
I can smell his cologne, something dark and expensive, and underneath it, the clean, sharp scent of his skin.
My grin turns wicked. “Okay, fine. Forget the room.” I jerk my chin toward the shadowy service alley that runs alongside the building.
“We could go around back. Quick and dirty. Just how you like it.”
His eyes narrow. He takes a deliberate step backward, putting space between us.
I match him, step for step, my boots scuffing quietly on the concrete.
The predatory gleam in my eyes must finally register, because his expression shifts from annoyance to wary comprehension.
He’s realizing I’m not just talking. I might actually try something here, in the open, on this fancy terrace.
He takes another step back. His heel hits the low base of the terrace railing. He’s cornered.
For a second, we just stare at each other. The hum of the city below feels very far away. Then, to my absolute and utter delight, Suha does something I’ve never seen him do before.
He sidesteps quickly and retreats.
Not a collected withdrawal. Not a strategic repositioning. He turns and walks, briskly and with purpose, back toward the glass doors leading into the hotel.
A laugh bursts out of me, loud and startled. He’s running away. Yoon Suha, the head of the Phantom Lotus Syndicate, is literally fleeing from my proposition.
The hilarity of it fuels me. I’m after him in an instant, my longer legs eating up the distance.
He shoves through a side door instead of going back to the main event, hitting a dimly lit service stairwell.
His expensive dress shoes slap against the concrete steps as he takes them two at a time.
He’s fast, I’ll give him that. But I’m faster, and I know how to move in places like this.
I don’t follow him down. I swing over the railing, dropping to the landing below just as he reaches it. He skids to a halt, his eyes flashing with pure irritation. I grin, spreading my arms wide. “Going somewhere?”
He mutters a curse under his breath and reverses direction, heading back up.
I’m right behind him, my laughter echoing in the hollow space.
He bursts out onto a different terrace, this one cluttered with stacked patio furniture covered in tarps.
He weaves through them like a sprinter, a man possessed.
A billionaire crime boss in a tailored tuxedo, dodging around ghostly furniture shapes while being chased by a laughing idiot in a leather jacket.
He makes for another stairwell at the far end.
I cut across, planting myself at the top of the steps.
He changes direction again, heading for the main building, but I’m herding him now, like a sheepdog with a single, very pissed-off sheep.
He’s forced down a narrow access path between the hotel and the next building, a concrete canyon lit by a single buzzing security light.
He tries to double back, but I block the way, still grinning. He has no choice but to go deeper into the alley. It dead-ends at a high brick wall, stacked with pallets and dumpsters.
He turns to face me, his back to the wall. His chest is rising and falling just a little too quickly. His hair, so perfectly styled earlier, has a single dark lock fallen across his forehead. He looks furious and flustered, and it’s the best thing I’ve seen all week.
“Enough,” he snaps, the word cutting through the damp alley air.
“Aw, come on,” I purr, stepping into him. I press my body against his, pinning him to the rough brick with my weight. I can feel the solid heat of him through our clothes, the rapid beat of his heart. “You started it. Coming out here all alone, looking so tense. Someone should help you with that.”