Chapter 7
I an's fingers dig into my arm as he drags me down the hallway, his grip tight enough to bruise. I should protest. Should dig my heels in and demand he let me go. But there's something in his face—something dark and desperate—that silences any objection before it can form.
The staff parts before us like water around a stone, their eyes carefully averted. No one wants to witness whatever storm is brewing between us. No one wants to get caught in the crossfire.
We reach his office quickly. He practically throws me inside, slamming the door behind us with enough force to rattle the hinges.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he demands, his voice low and dangerous.
I rub my arm where his fingers left their mark, forcing my expression into one of bored indifference. "You'll have to be more specific."
"Don't play games with me, Claire." He stalks closer, all coiled tension and barely restrained fury. "I’m talking about Blackwood's offer."
"I wasn't aware my decisions were subject to your approval," I say, ice coating each word.
He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?"
Something inside me snaps. The fear and uncertainty I've been carrying since Blackwood's visit crystallizes into anger—hot and bright and clarifying.
"Don't you dare lecture me about danger," I hiss, stepping into his space. "I'm not some naive child who doesn't understand what she's gotten herself into."
"No?" His laugh is bitter, humorless. "Then explain to me why you're willingly stepping deeper into a world that will swallow you whole if you let it."
The question hits too close to home, probes at insecurities I've been trying to ignore. I deflect, going on the offensive instead.
"That's rich coming from you," I say, my voice razor-sharp. "Blackwood's loyal attack dog. How many people have you hurt for him, Ian? How many lives have you ruined following his orders?"
He flinches like I've slapped him, and satisfaction curls through me—dark and vicious. Good. Let him feel exposed for once. Let him be the one stripped bare.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he says, but there's a new wariness in his eyes.
"Don't I?" I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "I've seen the way you move. The way you watch. The way you anticipate threats before they materialize. You weren't born knowing how to do that. Someone taught you and made you into this."
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. He grabs my wrist, his grip just shy of painful. "You want to know what I am? What I've done?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "I've killed for him. I've tortured for him. I've broken people in ways they'll never recover from."
The confession hangs between us, raw and ugly and real. I should be terrified. Should be recoiling from the monster he's revealing himself to be. Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn to the darkness he's finally letting me see.
"Why?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
"Because he saved me." The words seem ripped from him, each one a wound. "Because he gave me purpose when I had nothing."
I understand then—the fierce devotion, the unquestioning obedience. Blackwood didn't just employ Ian. He created him. Molded him into the perfect instrument of his will.
Just like he's trying to do with me.
Something snaps inside me—rage and desire fusing into something dangerous. I shove him hard, my palms flat against his chest. He barely moves, solid as stone, which only infuriates me more.
"You think you can control me?" I hiss, shoving him again. "Think you can decide what's best for me like everyone else in my goddamn life?"
His eyes darken, pupils dilating with something that isn't just anger. "I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need your protection." I punctuate each word with another push until his back hits the wall. "I need you to stop treating me like I'm some fragile thing that can't make her own choices."
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. In one fluid motion, he reverses our positions, pinning me against the wall, his body pressed against mine from chest to thigh. The air rushes from my lungs at the impact.
"Is this what you want, Claire?" His voice is dangerous, rough-edged. "You want me to stop holding back? Stop pretending I don't want to consume you?"
I lift my chin defiantly. "Maybe I'm tired of your control. Your restraint. Your goddamn nobility."
Something flashes in his eyes—something primal and unleashed.
His mouth crashes down on mine, stealing my breath, my thoughts, my anger.
There's nothing gentle about this kiss. It's all teeth and tongue and barely leashed violence.
I respond with equal ferocity, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.
He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, settling low in my belly. His hands slide down my sides, gripping my hips with bruising force, pulling me harder against him. I can feel him through our clothes, hard and insistent against my stomach.
I bite his lower lip, drawing blood. He pulls back with a hiss, his eyes wild. "You want to play rough, princess? Fine."
He spins me around, pressing me face-first against the wall. His body cages mine from behind, one hand coming up to sweep my hair aside, exposing my neck. His lips find the sensitive spot below my ear, teeth scraping against my pulse point.
"I've been holding back," he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. "Treating you like you might break. Like you need to be handled with care."
His hand slides around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of his strength, of how easily he could hurt me if he wanted to. The thought sends a shameful thrill through me.
"But that's not what you want, is it?" His other hand works at the button of my jeans, dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. "You want this. The real me. The monster."
I should deny it. Should pull away from the dangerous precipice we're teetering on. Instead, I push back against him, feeling his hardness press against me.
"Show me," I challenge, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. "Show me what you've been hiding."
He tugs my jeans down my hips, taking my underwear with them. Cool air hits my heated skin, making me shiver—or maybe it's the way his hand slides between my thighs, finding me already slick and ready.
"So wet," he says, his voice a dark rumble against my ear. "Is this what fighting with me does to you, Claire? Gets you all hot and desperate?"
I refuse to answer, refuse to give him the satisfaction. But my body betrays me, pressing into his touch as his fingers circle my entrance, teasing but not entering.
"Answer me." His teeth find my earlobe, biting down just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through me.
"Yes," I hiss, hating him a little for making me admit it. "Yes, damn you."
I hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the rasp of his zipper. Then he's pressing against me, hot and hard and insistent.
"Tell me to stop," he says, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Tell me this isn't what you want."
In answer, I reach behind me, guiding him to where I need him most. He enters me in one powerful thrust, filling me completely, stretching me to the point of exquisite pain. We both cry out at the sensation, our voices mingling in the charged air.
He sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me harder against the wall. One hand remains at my throat, the other gripping my hip, holding me in place as he takes me. The angle is perfect, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur at the edges.
"Is this what you wanted?" he growls, his rhythm never faltering. "To be fucked against a wall like you mean nothing? Like this is just about getting off?"
I can't answer, can't form words past the pleasure building inside me. He seems to take my silence as defiance, his hand sliding from my hip to between my legs, finding that bundle of nerves that makes me see stars.
"Answer me, Claire." His fingers circle my clit with devastating precision, in perfect counterpoint to his thrusts. "Is this what you wanted from me?"
"No," I manage, the word torn from me. "I wanted you. All of you. Not just the parts you think I can handle."
His rhythm falters for a moment, my honesty catching him off guard. Then he's spinning me around again, lifting me effortlessly. My legs wrap around his waist as he carries me to his desk, sweeping papers and files to the floor with one arm.
He lays me down on the cool surface, never breaking our connection. The new angle allows him to go deeper, to see my face as he takes me apart piece by piece. His eyes lock with mine, refusing to let me hide, forcing me to acknowledge what's happening between us.
"You want all of me?" he asks, his voice rough with emotion and exertion. "The killer? The monster? The man who would burn down the world if you asked him to?"
"Yes," I breathe, reaching up to touch his face, my fingers tracing the harsh lines of his jaw. "Everything. All of it."
Something breaks in his expression then—the last of his control shattering. He leans down, capturing my mouth in a kiss that's surprisingly gentle given the force of his body moving inside mine. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance that I willingly grant.
The contrast is maddening—the tenderness of his kiss against the relentless power of his thrusts. I'm caught between sweetness and violence, between hatred and something dangerously close to love.
The pressure builds inside me, coiling tighter and tighter until I think I might shatter from the tension. Ian seems to sense it, his fingers returning to where we're joined, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves with expert precision.
"Come for me," he commands, his voice a dark promise in my ear. "Let me feel you fall apart."
The order pushes me over the edge. I come with a cry of his name, my body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. The sensation triggers his own release, his rhythm faltering as he empties himself inside me with a guttural groan.
For a long moment, we stay like that, connected, breathing hard, neither willing to break the fragile peace that's settled over us. His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
One hand comes up to brush hair from my face, the tenderness of the gesture at odds with the intensity of what just happened.
"I've wanted to tell you for so long," he says, his voice quiet in the aftermath. "How I feel about you. What you do to me."
I should pull away. Should rebuild the walls he's so thoroughly demolished. But I find myself leaning into his touch instead, craving the connection I've denied myself for so long.
"And what’s that?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He studies me for a moment, as if weighing how much truth I can handle. "I'm falling in love with you," he says finally. "Have been since I first saw you. It terrifies me. Makes me want to lock you away somewhere safe, where Blackwood and this world can't touch you."
The confession steals my breath. Love is not a word I expected from this man—this dangerous, controlled enforcer who kills without hesitation. It's not a word I allow myself to consider, not with the life I've lived, the walls I've built.
"You don't even know me," I say, the protest weak even to my own ears.
"I know enough." His thumb traces my lower lip. "I know you're brilliant. Determined. Fierce. I know you've survived things that would break most people. I know you're afraid of needing anyone, of being vulnerable."
Each word strips away another layer of my defenses, leaving me raw and exposed. "And you still want me? Knowing all that?"
"I want you because of all that." His eyes hold mine, unflinching. "Because you're like me. Broken in all the same places. Hungry for all the same things."
The truth of it resonates in my chest, a perfect harmony to the melody of my own desires. This man sees me—all of me—and wants me anyway. Wants me because of the darkness, not despite it.
"I'm scared," I admit, the words barely audible.
"I know." He pulls me closer, his arms encircling me, offering shelter I didn't know I was seeking. "So am I."
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I let myself be held. Let myself be comforted. Let myself believe, just for a moment, that I'm not alone in this.
"I think I'm falling for you too," I whisper against his skin. The admission costs me something—some small piece of the independence I've clung to so desperately. But the way his arms tighten around me, the way his breath catches, makes it worth the price.
We stay like that for a long time, naked and vulnerable in more ways than one.
The world outside this office—with all its dangers and complications—seems distant, unimportant.
For now, there is only this: his heartbeat beneath my ear, his arms around me, the shared understanding that we are alike in our brokenness, our hunger, our need.
Later, we'll have to face reality again.