THE GALA
The invitation to the Starlight Gala in Los Angeles was printed on heavy, gold-embossed cardstock, but to Elara, it felt like a draft notice.
It was the most exclusive, heavily scrutinized crossover event of the year—a massive collision of Hollywood royalty, music industry titans, and elite athletes.
Three months ago, Elara would have attended on Declan’s arm, an accessory designed to catch the flashbulbs while he gave interviews.
Tonight, she was attending with a man who was currently serving a three-game suspension for practically dismantling another player on national television to defend her honor.
The media narrative was a powder keg, and the Starlight Gala was the match.
Elara stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the Beverly Hills hotel suite, staring at her reflection.
She wasn't wearing midnight blue or defensive black tonight.
She was wearing blood red. The custom silk gown was a masterpiece of dangerous architecture, hugging her curves flawlessly before pooling at her feet.
It featured a high, elegant neckline that offered a deceptive modesty, entirely contradicted by the fact that the dress was completely backless, plunging dangerously low.
She felt a heavy, warm presence behind her before she even saw him in the mirror.
Julian stepped into the frame.
He was breathtaking. He wore a bespoke, midnight-black tuxedo that stretched taut across the impossible breadth of his shoulders.
The stark white of his dress shirt contrasted sharply with his dark, golden-brown scruff and the turbulent, stormy gray of his eyes.
He looked aristocratic, lethal, and completely in command.
He didn't speak. He stepped up directly behind her, his chest brushing her bare back. The sheer heat radiating from his massive body sent a violent, instantaneous shiver down her spine.
Julian’s large, calloused hands settled on the curve of her waist. He looked at their reflection in the mirror, his jaw clenching as his gaze tracked the aggressive, unapologetic red silk clinging to her body.
"You look like a war," Julian rasped, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly register that made her knees feel weak.
"Is that a compliment, Thorne?" Elara whispered, leaning back slightly into his solid warmth.
"It’s a surrender," Julian corrected, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His lips pressed a scorching, open-mouthed kiss to her pulse point. "I don't think I can let you walk out of this room, Elara. Not looking like this."
Elara’s breath hitched, her eyes fluttering shut as his hands slid upward, his thumbs tracing the bare skin of her ribs beneath her arms.
The heavy, intoxicating sexual tension that had been simmering between them since they arrived in LA instantly boiled over.
There was no PR contract dictating their boundaries anymore.
The lines were gone, replaced by a profound, consuming love that anchored her completely.
"We have to go," Elara breathed, though she made absolutely no effort to pull away. She turned her head, her lips brushing against his bruised jaw. "Sarah has been texting Marcus every five minutes. She’s terrified we’re going to go rogue again."
"We are going rogue," Julian growled softly, turning her in his arms until she was facing him.
He bracketed her body with his massive hands, his thumbs stroking the flare of her hips.
"The PR playbook is dead, sweetheart. Tonight, I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about the optics. The only thing I care about is making sure the entire world knows exactly who you belong to."
Elara looked up into his eyes, her heart hammering a frantic, wild rhythm against her ribs. The absolute, terrifying devotion in his gaze was a physical weight.
"Declan is going to be there," she said softly, the reality of the night finally breaking the surface.
Julian’s eyes darkened instantly, the stormy gray turning into a heavy, lethal charcoal. The protective beast inside him, the one that had thrown punches on the ice and threatened reporters on the red carpet, flared violently to life.
"I know," Julian said, his voice entirely stripped of warmth, replaced by a cold, quiet menace. "And if he comes within ten feet of you, I am going to end his career before he can even open his mouth."
"Julian, no," Elara urged gently, her hands sliding up the silk lapels of his tuxedo jacket. "You are already suspended. You are on zero-tolerance probation with the league. You cannot hit him."
"I didn't say I was going to hit him," Julian murmured, a dark, terrifyingly calm smirk touching his lips. "I don't need my fists to destroy Declan Hayes. Just stay close to me tonight. Let me handle him."
He leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep, bruising kiss that tasted of mint, expensive bourbon, and absolute possession.
It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a brand.
He swept his tongue past her parted lips, claiming her entirely, his massive hands pulling her flush against his solid body until she was breathless and completely unmoored.
When he finally pulled back, Elara’s lips were swollen, and her whiskey eyes were dark with desire.
"Let's go," Julian whispered, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Before I lock the door and throw the key off the balcony."