Chapter 7
The city is a smear of bleeding neon through the rain-streaked window of the cab. Each drop that slides down the glass feels like a tear for the life I’ve lost. The card is a rectangle of ice in my clammy hand, the address a brand seared into my retinas. Sapphire Heights, Penthouse One.
Rage is a living thing inside me. It’s a toxic, high-octane fuel that has burned away the despair, leaving a clean, sharp, homicidal edge. For four days, I have been a ghost in my own apartment, marinating in my ruin. But the time for mourning is over. Now is the time for reckoning.
Sapphire Heights is a sleek, black stiletto of glass and steel piercing the low-hanging clouds. It looks down on the rest of the city with cold, glittering contempt.
My coat is damp, my clothing is wrinkled, and I probably look like I’ve been sleeping in a bus station. I don’t care. Let him see what he’s made of me. I barely had the wherewithal to shower before leaving.
The doorman, a man who looks like he could snap a person in half without wrinkling his pristine uniform, steps forward as I approach the monolithic glass doors.
“May I help you, miss?” His voice is polite, but his eyes are cataloging my dishevelment.
“I’m here to see Jasper Wolfe,” I say, my voice tight.
I expect to be stopped, questioned, told to use a service entrance. I expect to have to fight my way in. Instead, the doorman’s expression smoothes into one of practiced neutrality.
“Of course. Mr. Wolfe is expecting you.” He gestures toward a private elevator. “Penthouse One.”
He’s expecting me.
The rage, which had been a steady burn, flares into a white-hot inferno. The absolute, unmitigated arrogance. He orchestrates my professional execution, sends me a contract for my soul, and then simply waits for me to show up at his door, as if my arrival is a foregone conclusion.
The elevator is a silent, mirrored box, ascending seventy floors in a stomach-lurching whisper of speed. My own reflection mocks me from all sides—a wild-eyed, furious woman who looks nothing like the composed lawyer I once was. Good. Let the animal out of the cage.
The doors open directly into a private foyer. There is only one door. Before I can even think to knock, it swings inward.
And there he is.
He’s not in a suit. He’s barefoot, wearing a pair of soft, gray trousers and a simple black long-sleeved shirt that hugs the lean, powerful muscles of his torso.
He isn’t smiling. He isn’t frowning. He’s just…
watching me. A predator in his lair, observing the prey that has willingly walked into his den.
He steps back, a silent invitation, holding the door open. I stalk past him, the suppressed violence of my stride making the air crackle. My senses are immediately overwhelmed. The scent of him—cedarwood, clean cotton, and spice—and the sheer, breathtaking scale of the space.
The penthouse is a cathedral of glass. Two entire walls are floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing a panoramic, god-like view of the city skyline.
The lights glitter below like a carpet of fallen stars.
Polished floors, minimalist furniture that collectively costs more than my education, a fireplace crackling with real wood.
The door clicks shut behind me. A heavy, final sound. The lock engages with a soft, electronic thump.
The sound snaps me to attention.
I spin on him, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “You son of a bitch.”
He doesn't flinch. He just leans back against the closed door, crossing his arms over his chest, his gray eyes unreadable. “A bit cliché, Olivia, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, taking a step toward him. “Don’t you dare act like this is normal. Like you didn’t just take a fucking wrecking ball to my entire life.”
“I gave you an opportunity,” he states, his voice a low, infuriatingly calm rumble.
“An opportunity? You call this an opportunity?” My laugh is a jagged, ugly thing. “You set me up. That exhibit… that fake, sloppy piece of shit exhibit. You added it, didn’t you? You didn’t just want me to lie; you wanted me to be caught. You wanted me disgraced. Publicly.”
He doesn’t deny it. He just watches me, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch. “A half-measure would have been useless. I needed your undivided attention.”
“My undivided attention? I’m suspended! I have a sanction I can’t pay! The State Bar is opening an investigation that will end with me being disbarred! My career isn’t just over, you fucking nuked it from orbit! Why?” My voice breaks on the last word. “Why would you do that to me?”
“Because your career was a cage, and you were too noble to pick the lock,” he says, pushing off the door and taking a slow step toward me. “I just burned the cage down for you.”
“You destroyed me!” I scream, shoving him hard in the chest. It’s like pushing against a marble statue. He doesn’t move, but the impact sends a jolt up my arm.
“I liberated you,” he counters, his voice dropping, becoming dangerously soft. “I saw what you were, what you could be, and I cut away the dead weight. ”
“I’m going to leave!” The admission rips out of me, a confession of my last ditch, escape plan. “I’m going to pack up and move to a new state and start over. I’m going to get away from you, from this whole goddamn mess.”
And that’s when it happens. His mask of calm control doesn’t just slip; it shatters. A flicker of something cold and violent flashes in his eyes. His jaw tightens.
He scoffs, a sound of pure, derisive contempt. “Start over? As what? Another indentured servant to a broken system? You would rather run away and disappear, a nobody in some forgotten city, than accept what I offered you?”
“I don’t want to work for the devil!”
The air crackles. He closes the distance between us in one predatory stride.
His hands come up, but they don’t strike me.
They cage me, his palms slamming flat against the wall on either side of my head.
His body presses against mine, hard muscle and unyielding heat.
I’m trapped. His face is inches from mine, his eyes blazing with a fury that matches my own.
“The devil?” he breathes, his voice a low, threatening snarl. “I’m the devil, huh?”
His scent is everywhere. His heat is seeping into my skin.
My body, the traitorous bitch, is responding.
A low, electric hum starts deep in my belly.
My anger is still there, roaring and white-hot, but something else is coiling around it—a dark, desperate desire that I have been suppressing for days.
“You’re insane,” I whisper, my breath catching as his hips press forward, letting me feel the hard ridge of his erection against my stomach.
“No. I’m honest.” His gaze drops to my lips. “And so is this.”
He crashes his mouth down on mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a bruising, punishing claim of ownership. His lips are hard, demanding, and I fight back, my fists balling against his chest, my teeth scraping against his. It’s a battle, a clash of wills fought with mouths and tongues. He tastes of whiskey and lemons.
His hand slides from the wall, tangling in my hair, yanking my head back to give him better access. The sharp sting of pain makes me gasp, and his tongue plunges into my mouth. My fury, my shame, my fear—it all curdles into something else. Arousal. Sharp, slick, and undeniable.
My hands stop pushing, my fingers uncurling, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt as I kiss him back with all the desperation of a drowning woman. I hate him. I hate him so much.
He drags his mouth from mine, leaving me gasping, my lips swollen and throbbing. His teeth graze the sensitive skin of my neck as his hand slides down my body, over my hip, finally settling between my legs. Even through the fabric of my pants, I’m wet. Humiliatingly, achingly wet.
“Tell me you don’t want this, Olivia,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice a guttural rasp. “Lie to me again.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Two of his fingers press against me, a firm, knowing pressure that makes my knees weak. He works the button of my trousers open with a terrifying efficiency, his other hand still tangled in my hair, holding me pinned. The zipper comes down with a raw, tearing sound.
“Please,” I gasp, not even sure what I’m begging for.
“Please what?” he whispers, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my underwear, finding my slick folds. “Please stop? Or please finally take what you’ve been craving since you first walked into that holding cell?”
His fingers slide inside me.
A choked sob of pure, unadulterated pleasure escapes my lips.
I’m so wet, he slips in easily, two thick digits filling me, stretching me.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. His thumb finds my clit, circling it with a maddening, relentless pressure while his fingers fuck into me with a hard, steady rhythm.
“You feel that?” he groans, his forehead pressing against mine, our breath mingling. “That’s the truth. Right here. Your body doesn’t give a fuck about your ethics, does it? It just wants this. It just wants to be owned.”
I’m unraveling, coming apart against the cold wall of his penthouse. Every thrust of his fingers sends a jolt of liquid fire through my veins. The view of the glittering city blurs through my tears. My hips start to move of their own accord, bucking against his hand, chasing the release.
“Look at you,” he says, his voice thick with possessive satisfaction. “Soaking for the man who destroyed you. Coming apart for the devil.”
He presses harder, faster. The pleasure is so intense it’s agonizing. I’m close, so close.
“Come for me,” he commands.
And I do. My body convulses, a shattering, soul-splintering orgasm that rips a scream from my throat. My vision whites out. I sag against the wall, my legs shaking, boneless. He holds me up, his fingers still buried deep inside me, feeling the frantic pulse of my release.
My mind is a fog of aftershocks. When I can finally focus again, he’s watching me, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with his own arousal. He withdraws his fingers slowly, and I whimper at the loss.
I need to get away. I need space to think. I push weakly against his chest and stumble away from the wall, toward the center of the vast, empty room. I make it three steps before my legs give out, and I collapse sideways, catching myself on the arm of a low, leather sofa.
He doesn’t follow immediately. He watches me, his chest rising and falling heavily.
He slowly unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls up his sleeves, revealing muscular, vein-tracked forearms. Then, his eyes never leaving mine, he reaches down and unfastens his trousers.
He pulls his cock out, thick, long, and brutally hard.
He strokes it once, twice, a slow, deliberate motion.
“You can hate me,” he says, his voice rough. “You can spend the rest of your tainted little life hating me. But don’t you ever lie to me, or to yourself, about wanting this.”
My gaze is locked on him, on the raw display of his power and his need. He’s right. God help me, the depraved, broken part of me wants this more than I’ve ever wanted anything. My mind screams no, but my body is aching for him, the slick heat between my legs a testament to my surrender.
I try to back away, scrambling onto the couch, but my coordination is gone.
I fall back onto the soft leather, a tangled mess of limbs.
He’s on me in an instant, a predator pouncing.
He doesn’t kiss me. He grabs my ankles, yanking my legs apart and draping them over his shoulders, exposing my core to the cool air and his scorching gaze.
“So beautiful when you’re undone,” he growls, before lowering his head.
His mouth on me is a revelation. If his fingers were an interrogation, his tongue is a full confession.
He licks, sucks, and devours me with a ferocity that borders on violence.
He consumes me. One hand grips my hip, holding me in place, while the other tangles in my pubic hair.
He licks a slow, broad stripe from my clit to my entrance, and I cry out, my back arching off the couch.
He laps at me like a man dying of thirst, his tongue flicking against my clit, then plunging deep inside me. The dirty talk is a low, constant rumble against my most sensitive flesh.
“Going to make you scream my fucking name… Let me hear how much you hate this, Olivia… how much you hate begging me to put my cock inside you.”
I’m a wreck, writhing beneath him, my hands gripping the leather cushions. The second orgasm is building even faster than the first, a searing, unstoppable wave. I’m close, so close, on the very precipice of shattering again.
And then he pulls away.
I cry out in protest, a raw, needy sound. He lifts his head, his lips slick with my fluids, a triumphant, predatory glint in his eyes.
“That’s it,” he says, as if I’ve just given him exactly what he wanted. “Beg.”
He moves up my body, positioning himself between my thighs. He grabs my hips, tilting them up, and then he drives into me.
A scream is ripped from my throat, but this time it’s not just pleasure. It’s the agony of being completely, utterly filled. He is huge, stretching me, branding me from the inside out.
He doesn’t give me a moment to adjust. He pulls out almost completely and then slams back into me, a brutal, relentless rhythm.
He is fucking me. Not making love. Not a tender act.
This is a punishment and a sacrament, a branding, an exorcism of the woman I used to be.
My legs are still hooked over his shoulders, my body completely open to him, to his invasion.
The head of his cock grinds against my g-spot with every savage thrust. He leans down, his mouth next to my ear, his voice a harsh, hypnotic litany.
“You’re mine… Every time you come, you belong to me a little more… This is what you are now, Olivia… Mine to ruin… Mine to fuck… Mine to own.”
The friction, the feeling of him filling me, the raw power of his words—it’s too much.
My senses are overloaded. The third orgasm hits me like a lightning strike, a blinding, violent cataclysm that arcs through my entire body.
I scream his name—Jasper!—and the world goes white, then black.
My body convulses around him as I fall into a dark, bottomless unconsciousness, the feeling of him still buried deep inside me the last thing I know.