18. Wolfe
WOLFE
She came out with her head down. Not in shame. In something worse.
Afterglow.
I watched her from behind the glass. She didn’t see me. No one ever does—until it’s too late.
Her blouse was rumpled. Two buttons undone. Her lipstick smudged at one corner. She adjusted the top of her skirt like it still clung too high.
And I knew. I didn’t need proof. Didn’t need a camera. Didn’t need to ask. I fucking knew. My jaw locked.
I pressed two fingers against the edge of the windowsill to keep from breaking something.
She walked like her legs were shaking. Like her thighs were too slick to move comfortably.
And Barron?
His office door was still open. Not wide. But wide enough.
Wide enough for the assistants to glance up and glance away. Wide enough for the boardroom two doors down to go silent. Wide enough for every single person on this floor to know.
He didn’t close it.
Because he wanted them to know. And that? That made something in my chest crack. I turned away.
Because if I looked one second longer, I was going to put my fist through the glass. Behind me, a security notice pinged. A digital signature from a logistics handler we’d buried two years ago.
I didn’t check it. Didn’t open it.
I didn’t care. Because the only thing I could see was the silk of her blouse sticking to her chest. The way she adjusted the skirt like it still held the print of someone’s palm. My brother’s palm.
I gripped the edge of the console. Hard. Knuckles white. Control bleeding at the edges.
I told myself it didn’t matter. That I wasn’t the one who touched her. That I didn’t want to be. But it was a lie. I’d been lying since the day she walked in.
And now?
Now I was angry.
Not at her.
At me.
For not getting there first.
I crossed the room and opened the sideboard. The crystal decanter was cold in my hand. I poured too hard. Whiskey sloshed over the rim. Didn’t care.
I didn’t even flinch when it hit my fingers.
I just held the glass like it was the only thing I could still control.
My fingers were tight enough to crack the crystal.
My cock was still hard. My throat raw. My chest burned like something feral was trying to claw its way out.
Not because she let him touch her. Because it was him. Barron .
Barron always takes first.
He walks in, makes a decision, and the rest of us bleed for it. He was warned about Selene. We all told him.
I told him. Said she’d break him. Hollow him out. Strip this company bare one secret at a time. He didn’t listen. He never fucking does. Because Barron always gets what he wants. And we always pay for it.
We pay for the women he can’t walk away from. We pay for the silence he keeps like a weapon until it’s too late to fix.
And now?
Now he’s walking through fire again. Only this time? The girl he wants already belongs to me.
She said thank you— for me.
She came when I called.
She bent when I told her to.
But she bent for him too.
And that? That… that was the part I couldn’t stop replaying. What did he say? What name did she whisper?
Did he press his fingers against the back of her neck? Did she flinch? Did she beg? Did she like it?
I threw back the whiskey. Didn’t taste it. Didn’t care. It burned like water. The door opened behind me.
Footsteps. Hers.
I didn’t turn. Couldn’t.
Because if I did, I’d grab her. Drag her into my office. Press her against the glass and make her say my name loud enough that Barron would fucking hear it. I set the glass down too hard. The echo rang through the room like a warning.
I turned my back on the floor. Sat down too fast. The chair creaked. Loud. Sharp. I stared at the screen. Nothing moved. No files. No reports. No distraction. Because she was still out there. Sitting. Typing .
Pretending.
I could picture her—corset cinched too tight, thighs pressed together, lace soaked through. Typing the same sentence over and over again. Deleting it. Starting again. Because that’s what she did when she was nervous. When she was wet.
My hands curled into fists on my lap.
I didn’t look at the glass. Didn’t have to. I could still see her. Blouse open. Breasts rising too fast. Skirt tight across her ass. Bent over Barron’s desk.
My brother’s desk.
I pressed my palms to my thighs.
Hard.
The ache in my chest was a drumbeat now. The one in my pants worse. Thick. Hot. Unrelieved.
I adjusted myself.
Still hard.
Harder.
The whiskey had done nothing.
My phone lit up.
Security feed.
Ping: Barron’s office—door opened.
Five minutes ago.
Then: closed.
She was still in there.
I imagined it again. How he told her to bend. How she shook when he touched her. Whether she cried. Whether she came. My jaw cracked from clenching too tight.
And still?—
Still all I could hear was her voice from the night before.
Thank you.
She said it for me. But would she say it for him too? Would she say it softer? Would she mean it more ?
I pressed my fists against my thighs until I saw stars.
Because that thought?
That thought made me want to ruin her. Not from anger. Not from hate. From something deeper. Something darker. Something I wasn’t sure I could come back from once I touched it.
I wanted to take the obedience she gave me and drag it out of her in pieces. On her knees. In silence. In tears. I stood again. Too fast. The chair tipped. I didn’t fix it. Didn’t care.
I paced. Back and forth. Five steps. Turn. Five steps. Stop. Breathing hard. Harder. Every inhale felt like fire. Every exhale like something I couldn’t name.
I imagined walking out to her desk. Grabbing her by the wrist. Pulling her back here. Making her look me in the eye and say it again.
Not thank you. Not this time.
“Please.”
I found her alone. Break room. Corner seat. Glass wall at her back. She held a coffee cup in her hands, untouched. She wasn’t scrolling. Wasn’t typing. Just staring. Like she was trying to remember who she was before all of this started. Before I started.
Her blouse was buttoned again. Corset still visible beneath the silk—if you knew where to look. And I did. I knew every seam. Every line. Every shiver she thought she could hide.
I stepped inside the room. Silent. Predator quiet.
She looked up. Flinched. Just once. But it was enough.
“Did you look in the mirror after he touched you?”
I didn’t soften it. Didn’t blink. She froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. But no answer. Because she knew I knew. And she knew better than to lie.
“You should have. ”
I moved forward. Not fast. Not looming. Just forward. Letting her feel it. Letting her feel me.
“You’re wearing him now.”
Her breath caught. Her eyes dropped. Shame. Or something worse. Maybe not shame at all. Maybe want.
I circled her once.
Slow.
Close enough to smell the heat on her skin. Coffee. Silk. Something darker underneath.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
I stepped behind her.
Leant down.
Close.
“He marked you,” I whispered. “But he didn’t claim you.”
Let it sit.
Let it settle.
“You’re still shaking for someone else.”
Her breath hitched.
“I’m not?—”
“Don’t lie.”
She stopped.
Didn’t speak again.
Good girl.
I leaned closer.
Mouth to her ear.
Her body tensed beneath the blouse.
“Next time you want to be touched…”
I paused.
Waited.
“…ask me first .”
Then I walked out. Because when I finally touch her? She won’t just say thank you . She’ll fucking beg.
I didn’t go back to my office. I walked. No destination. Just distance. The break room door swung shut behind me. But I could still feel her eyes. Still trembling. Still flushed. Still wet for someone who didn’t even lay a hand on her.
I made it to the garage. Got in the car. Didn’t start it. Didn’t reach for the key. Just sat there. Staring at the wall like it owed me answers I already hated. The ache didn’t go away. Not the one in my cock. Not the one in my chest. I pulled out my phone. Scrolled back to the message.
Thank you.
Still there. Still echoing. Still hers.
I didn’t delete it. Couldn’t. I read it again. Then hovered my thumb over her name. I didn’t call. But I wanted to. Not to hear her voice. To hear what she’d say if I told her to kneel.
I let the phone fall to the passenger seat. Leaned back. Closed my eyes.
And for some reason, I saw Camille. Barefoot.
Smiling. Standing in my kitchen like she owned it and the whole fucking world.
She used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was thinking.
Tilt her head. Say something that made it easier to breathe.
She was light. And she was mine. Until she wasn’t.
Cloe isn’t light.
She’s a fuse.
Lit .
Burning .
Begging for someone to strike.
And fuck me?—
I want to be the one who does.
The man wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in the building. Not on this floor. And definitely not walking toward my office with that smug, entitled smile like he belonged.
I intercepted him at the elevator. No words at first. Just presence. Just pressure. He stopped when he saw me. Raised his hands like I was holding a gun .
“Wolfe,” he said, too familiar. “Didn’t realize this floor was off-limits.”
“It is.”
I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t need to. Because the look in my eyes said what my fists were already itching to confirm. He worked for us—but just barely.
A diamond handler out of Antwerp. Good with border customs, bad with boundaries. He was supposed to stay off-site. Always. Never show his face in the tower.
And yet here he was.
Arrogant. Polished. Late forties. Toned in a way that said he paid for it. His shoes too shiny. His watch too loud.
“You should’ve called,” I said.
“I thought we had an arrangement.”
“You thought wrong.”
He smirked. That was his first mistake. I stepped closer. The smirk faded. That was his second.
“You don’t walk into this building unless you’re summoned. You don’t breathe near my people unless I give you air. And you don’t ever speak my name again like we’re fucking friends.”
He didn’t reply. The elevator behind me opened. Perfect timing.
I gestured with my chin. “You’re leaving. Now.”
He nodded. Lifted both hands again. Backed toward the elevator. And then?—
Cloe.
She stepped out of the opposite lift. Didn’t see me at first. Didn’t see him. She was holding her tablet. A folder tucked under her arm. Moving fast.
The man turned.
Saw her.
Stopped.
And smiled .
Slow.
Filthy .
His eyes dragged from her legs to her mouth.
“Well,” he murmured. “She’s not wearing that pink blouse for the admin team, is she?”
Cloe froze.
Her head turned.
Her eyes met mine.
Wide.
Alarmed .
The man didn’t stop.
“Lawlor’s new toy?” he said softly. “Didn’t think you went for soft.”
I didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. My fists curled so tight my nails cut my palms. I stepped forward.
Close.
Closer .
The man turned to me like he didn’t realize what he’d done. I leaned in.
“Next time you open your mouth about her,” I said quietly, “I’ll make sure you can’t open it again.”
His jaw twitched. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t smile. He stepped inside the elevator. I followed him halfway in. Close enough to whisper.
“If you ever so much as look at her again without my permission…”
I let the silence finish the sentence. The doors closed. I turned back. Cloe stood there. Frozen. Shaken. Her blouse was pressed flat to her chest. Her eyes still wide.
“What was that?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Because if I opened my mouth right now? I wouldn’t stop. Not until she was pressed to my desk, saying my name loud enough that the bastard who just left would hear it three floors down.
I walked past her. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak. But inside? Something snapped. Because I knew something she didn’t yet.
That man? He’d come back. And next time? He wouldn’t ask for diamonds.
He’d ask for her .