CHAPTER 9 – Marcus
The Presidential Suite at The Archer Hotel offers panoramic views of Port Hollow from thirty-eight stories up. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city transforming from day to night, lights blinking on like stars falling to earth.
I chose this location carefully—neutral territory, away from the safehouse and its associations. A fresh backdrop for what comes next.
Leona stands at the window, still in that sinful white dress, arms wrapped around herself as if for protection. The city lights reflect in the glass, illuminating her profile in shifting patterns of gold and shadow.
"Drink?" I offer, pouring whiskey into crystal tumblers.
"Please." She accepts the glass without looking at me, taking a substantial swallow. "Now what?"
"Now we discuss the terms of our arrangement more thoroughly."
She turns to face me, leaning against the window. "I thought the terms were clear. This is temporary. A business transaction."
"The broad strokes, yes." I loosen my tie, watching her eyes track the movement. "But marriage, even one of convenience, requires... parameters."
"Such as?"
"Public appearances. You'll need to accompany me to certain functions, play the part of the devoted wife."
Her jaw tightens. "Fine."
"You'll live in my home—the main residence, once security issues are resolved."
"With separate bedrooms," she adds quickly.
I smile, a predator's smile. "Of course. Unless you decide otherwise."
She scoffs, but the slight darkening of her pupils betrays her. "I won't."
"Your career." I continue, circling her slowly. "You can return to the crime lab eventually, once the immediate threat is neutralized. It would look suspicious for you to abandon your work entirely."
This catches her off guard. "You'd let me go back to work?"
"With appropriate security measures, yes." I stop behind her, close enough that she can feel my presence without touching. "I'm not interested in imprisoning you, Leona. Only in protecting what's mine."
Her spine stiffens at the possessive pronoun. "I'm not yours."
"The law and that ring say otherwise." I step closer, my breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. "As does the fact that you're still alive because of me."
She whirls to face me, fire in her eyes. "Don't pretend this is altruism. You want something from me."
"Many things," I admit. "Information about your brother. Leverage against the Delgados. The satisfaction of denying them what they want."
"And?" She tilts her chin defiantly.
I reach out, tracing the curve of her cheek with my knuckles. "And perhaps I simply enjoy watching you fight against the inevitable."
She doesn't pull away from my touch.
"Which is?"
"This." I gesture between us. "The tension. The heat. The knowledge that sooner or later, you'll stop fighting what we both know is coming."
Her breath catches, but her voice remains steady. "Don't count on it."
"I rarely gamble on uncertainties." I step back, giving her space. "But some bets are worth the risk."
She finishes her drink in one swallow, setting the glass down with force. "I'm going to shower. Alone."
"Of course. I'll ask for dinner."
When she disappears into the bathroom, I pour another whiskey, savoring the burn as I consider the battlefield before me. Marriage is a war like any other—strategy, timing, leverage. The only difference is that in this particular campaign, victory means mutual surrender.
I've already mapped her weaknesses. Her pride. Her principles. Her unwilling but undeniable attraction to the very things she claims to despise.
All that remains is patience.
By the time she emerges from the bathroom, I've removed my jacket and tie, my shirt open at the collar. Her hair is damp, her skin flushed from the hot water. She's changed into a silk nightdress—modest by conventional standards but still revealing enough curves to make it difficult to look away.
Dinner waits on the table by the window, silver domes concealing five-star cuisine. I hold out her chair, a gesture of civility in our uncivilized arrangement.
She sits, her movements stiff with tension.
"You're overthinking this," I observe, taking my seat across from her.
"Am I?"
"Yes. This is a business arrangement, as you said. Nothing needs to happen that you don't want to happen."
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "That's... unexpectedly reasonable of you."
"I'm a reasonable man, when it suits my purposes."
We eat in charged silence, the clink of silver against fine china the only sound besides our breathing. I watch her over the rim of my glass, noting the tension in her shoulders, the way she avoids meeting my gaze directly.
When we finish, I clear the dishes, playing the attentive husband. Her confusion at my civility is palpable—and exactly as intended. Uncertainty breeds vulnerability.
"I know what you're doing," she says finally, breaking the silence.
"And what is that?"
"This... performance. Being considerate. You think it will lower my defenses."
I smile, genuinely amused by her perception. "Is it working?"
"No."
"Then there's no harm in continuing, is there?"
She stands, moving to the window again, her silhouette outlined by city lights. "Why did you really bring me here? We could have gone back to the safehouse after the ceremony."
"Perhaps I wanted my wife somewhere appropriate for our wedding night."
Her reflection in the glass shows her flinching at the term. "Don't call me that."
"Wife?" I move closer, stopping just behind her. "That's what you are, legally and otherwise."
"On paper."
"For now."
She turns to face me, and the proximity catches her off guard. We're inches apart, close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in her throat, smell the hotel's shampoo in her hair.
"I told you," she says, voice lower than before. "I won't sleep with you."
"I haven't asked you to." I reach up, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.
Her breath hitches at my touch. The air between us thickens, charged with something dangerous and electric.
"I hate this," she whispers, but her body betrays her—leaning almost imperceptibly toward mine.
"No," I trace my thumb along her lower lip. "You hate that you don't hate it enough."
Something breaks in her expression—resistance crumbling under the weight of reality. With a sound that's half frustration, half surrender, she grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me to her.
Our lips meet in a collision of wills, nothing gentle about the contact. I let her lead for a moment, curious to see where this burst of initiative takes us. Her kiss is angry, desperate, a physical manifestation of the war raging inside her.
I give her exactly three seconds of control before reclaiming it.
My hands move to her waist, spinning her until her back hits the window. The kiss deepens, turns darker, hungrier. I taste the wine on her tongue, feel the heat of her body through the thin silk of her night dress.
She fights me even as she kisses me, her hands alternating between pulling me closer and pushing me away. This delicious contradiction, this battle within herself, makes my blood burn hotter than any willing submission ever could.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, her lips are swollen from my attention. She looks exactly as she should—conflicted, aroused, and infuriated by both conditions.
"This doesn't change anything," she says, voice rough.
"It changes everything." I brush my thumb across her lower lip. "You just haven't accepted it yet."
I kiss her again, giving her no space to escape. Her lips are stiff at first, but the heat between us is undeniable—an electric charge that neither of us has been able to ignore since the moment she fell into my world.
Then, in one swift motion, I lift her, pressing her back against the tall chest of drawers against the wall, facing the bed. A soft gasp escapes her lips as she steadies herself, her hands gripping my shoulders for balance.
"Marcus—"
"You fit here," I murmur, kissing along her jaw, down the delicate column of her throat. "Every part of you."
She shivers, but then her hands press against my chest, pushing me back with more force than before. "No," she says, her breath shaky but firm. "I don't want this."
I step back immediately, letting her go without resistance. She expects force. I give her patience instead.
Her body is still tense as she perches on the chest of drawers across from me. I walk over to the bed and sit down. But I don’t break eye contact.
Then, without a word, I unbuckle my belt.
Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t move. She watches as I unzip, the sound slicing through the quiet, and then I free myself from my pants. My cock, already thick and aching, rests heavy in my palm.
"You don't want this?" I ask, my voice rough. "Then don't look."
She looks.
Her lips part slightly, her breath uneven. Her thighs press together, as if fighting the way her body is betraying her.
"You’re thinking about it," I murmur, slowly stroking myself, deliberately dragging my hand over my length in a lazy, confident rhythm. "I see it in your eyes. You want to feel good, don’t you?"
She swallows hard.
I lean back on one elbow, my movements controlled, slow. "Touch yourself, Leona. I know you want to."
Her hands tighten into fists on the cabinet. She's fighting it—fighting me, fighting herself.
"You don’t have to pretend with me," I continue, my strokes unhurried but firm. "You’re wet already, aren’t you? That’s why you’re squeezing your thighs together like that."
Her breath hitches.
"Spread them," I order.
She shudders, but she does it.
Her legs part slowly, the movement hesitant, as if she’s still processing the fact that she’s doing this at all.
My cock twitches at the sight of her.
"Good girl," I murmur.
She exhales sharply, but her hands move, sliding up her thighs, trembling slightly as she hesitates just above her panties.
"Touch yourself," I urge again, voice dark with control. "Let me see."
Her fingers slip beneath the fabric. She gasps softly at the first touch, her eyelids fluttering shut for a moment before she forces them open again.