Chapter 3
AURELIA
The thing about running for two months straight is that you forget what it feels like to stop.
I’ve been looking over my shoulder for so long that my neck aches.
Sleeping in motels where the locks don’t work and the walls are paper-thin.
Eating gas station food because sitting in a restaurant means being visible.
Every day has been about survival, about staying invisible long enough to get out of the country and disappear for good.
So when Cassian tells me to cancel my reservation and stay with him instead, my first instinct isn’t to run.
It’s to feel relieved.
Because what happened on that plane—his fingers inside me, making me come while I fought hard to stay quiet—that was the first time in two months I’ve felt anything other than fear. The first time my body remembered it was capable of something besides adrenaline and panic.
The thought of being alone in another hotel room, jumping at every sound in the hallway, wondering if tonight’s the night my family finally tracks me down—that’s exhausting.
But the thought of being with Cassian Rourke, a man my family would never expect me to be with, a man who’s dangerous enough that even Victor’s security would think twice before making a move? That’s the safest I’ve felt in weeks.
It’s also completely insane, but I’m too tired to care.
I follow him off the plane, through the terminal, past baggage claim, where he doesn’t even pause because apparently he travels light or has people who handle that for him. My carry-on digs into my shoulder, and the contacts are making my eyes water, but I don’t stop.
A black car is waiting at the curb, the driver already holding the door open, and I slide into the back seat before I can talk myself out of this. The leather is soft and expensive. The interior smells like a new car. Cassian settles beside me and gives the driver an address, and then we’re moving.
Alright, I’m really doing this. With Cassian. A stranger. A criminal. Someone my family has been at war with for years.
But fear requires energy I don’t have, and honestly, the alternative—being alone, being hunted—feels worse. At least this way, if my uncle’s people come looking, they’ll have to go through Cassian first. And something tells me that’s not a fight they’d win easily.
“You’re quiet,” Cassian says.
I glance at him. He’s watching me with that intense focus he had on the plane, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking.
“Just processing,” I say.
“Processing what?”
“That I’m going to a hotel with a man I met six hours ago.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“More like fifth or sixth thoughts.”
His mouth curves. “But you’re still here.”
“I’m still here.”
And that’s the truth, isn’t it? I could’ve said no. Could’ve walked away at baggage claim or while we were waiting for the car. But I didn’t, because some reckless part of me wants this. Wants him. Wants one night where I’m not scared or running or pretending to be someone I’m not.
Well, I’m still pretending. He thinks I’m Catherine, not Aurelia Vance.
The hotel lobby is pristine and minimalist, and when we walk through it, the staff greets Cassian by name. Welcome back, Mr. Rourke.
He doesn’t acknowledge them beyond a brief nod. He simply heads straight for the elevators with me following, and I realize this is his world. Power and money and people who know better than to ask questions.
The elevator is empty when we step inside. He scans a card and hits the button for the penthouse, and I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that got me through the last six hours is wearing off, leaving me shaky and aware of how little sleep I’ve had recently.
Cassian notices, because of course he does. “When’s the last time you slept?” he asks.
“In a bed? Or just in general?”
“Either.”
I think about it. The motel two nights ago had a mattress that felt like concrete, and I barely managed four hours before a door slammed somewhere and I jerked awake, heart racing. Before that, I’d dozed in a bus station for maybe an hour.
“I don’t remember,” I say finally.
The elevator opens directly into his suite.
Not a hallway. Not a door with a key card.
Just straight into a massive open space with views of the city spreading out in every direction.
Massive windows turn the city into a glittering backdrop.
There’s a bedroom visible through an open door, and I catch a glimpse of a bed that could fit four people comfortably.
“This is where you’re staying?” I ask.
“For now.”
“For business meetings.”
“Something like that.” He moves past me, shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it over a chair. Then he pulls out his phone and frowns at whatever’s on the screen. “I need to make a call,” he says. “It’ll take ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Make yourself comfortable.”
Then he disappears into the bedroom, and I’m left standing in the middle of this absurd penthouse suite.
I drop my bag on the couch and head to the bathroom.
It’s as ridiculous as the rest of the suite—marble everywhere, a shower big enough for multiple people, a soaking tub that could double as a small pool.
I strip off the clothes I’ve been wearing since this morning and step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away two months of grime and fear and exhaustion.
When I’m clean, I stand there for a minute longer, letting the steam fill my lungs and trying to remember the last time I felt safe enough to take a shower this long.
I can’t.
I dry off with a towel that’s softer than anything I’ve touched in weeks, then dig through my bag for something to wear.
I didn’t pack with seduction in mind—most of my clothes are practical, meant for blending in—but I brought one set of lingerie because I’m twenty-three and sometimes a girl needs to feel like a person.
It’s a black lace bra with thin straps and matching underwear that sits high on my hips.
The lace is delicate, almost see-through in places, covering just enough to be interesting.
It’s the kind of set that makes you feel powerful even when you’re wearing nothing else.
I slip it on and look at myself in the mirror. The contacts are gone now, my real hazel eyes staring back at me. The black dye is still holding, but underneath it I can see hints of my natural color starting to show through. I look like myself and not like myself at the same time.
Good enough.
I walk out of the bathroom and find Cassian sitting on the edge of the couch. His phone is still in his hand, but his attention shifts to me the moment I appear.
His gaze rakes over me as I step out of the bathroom, dark and hungry, lingering on the black lace hugging my skin. “Catherine,” he says, voice rough like gravel.
I don’t answer with words. I walk straight to him, stopping between his knees. His hands come up immediately, settling on my hips, thumbs tracing the delicate edge of the lace panties. Heat pools low in my belly from that touch alone.
I lean down first, cupping his jaw with both hands, and kiss him.
The moment our mouths meet, he takes over.
His lips part mine, tongue sliding in deep and claiming, a low growl vibrating in his chest. One hand slides down to cup my ass, fingers digging in, pulling me closer until I feel the hard line of him through his trousers.
He stands without breaking the kiss, towering over me, and starts walking me backward, toward the bedroom.
His palm cracks against my ass once, sharp and possessive, the sting blooming hot across my skin.
I gasp into his mouth, and he does it again on the other cheek, harder, while his other hand kneads the flesh he just struck.
Each step he forces me to take is controlled by his grip, his body guiding mine exactly where he wants it.
My calves hit the mattress. He keeps pushing until I sit, then follows me down, guiding me onto my back. His mouth never leaves mine, kissing me deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing my lower lip.
I can’t believe this is real.
Two years ago I used to lie awake imagining Cassian Rourke touching me exactly like this, taking complete control of my body, and now he’s here, doing it, making every forbidden fantasy feel small in comparison.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to strip the lingerie away.
Fingers hook under my bra straps and yank them down my arms, baring my breasts.
They spill free, full and soft, nipples already tight from wanting him.
His mouth descends instantly, sucking one deep while his large hand cups the other, thumb flicking across the peak.
The pull of his mouth sends sparks straight between my legs.
He drags my panties down in one swift motion. I kick them off the rest of the way, completely naked under him now while he still wears his shirt and trousers.
He moves fully over me, knees forcing my thighs apart. One strong hand gathers both my wrists, pinning them high above my head against the mattress. His grip is iron. I test it once, arching slightly, but he tightens without effort and holds me there.
Then he settles his hips between my legs and presses forward.
The hard, thick length of his cock strains against the fabric of his trousers, grinding slow and deliberate right against my bare core.
Every ridge and inch of him drags over my slick folds through that barrier, teasing, promising.
Heat throbs through me with each roll of his hips.
I lift into him instinctively, chasing more friction, but he controls the pace completely, keeping me trapped and aching beneath him.
His mouth trails down my throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks, then lower again to my breasts, alternating between them with bites and long, wet pulls that make me whimper.
All the while, his lower body rocks in steady thrusts, the pressure of his clothed erection driving me higher without mercy.