The sun slipped through the blinds, casting golden lines across the tangled sheets.
Ana blinked slowly, adjusting to the light—and the silence. The bed beside her was empty, cold. Only the faint scent of Hayden lingered in the air: smoke, cedarwood, danger.
Her body ached in ways that made her blush. Last night had been a blur of passion and power. Of surrender and control. She could still feel his touch on her thighs, his mouth on her skin, the sound of his voice whispering *mine* against her neck.
But now?
He was gone.
She sat up, the sheet clinging to her body. The robe she'd borrowed was on the floor. Her legs felt shaky as she stood and walked into the hallway, the penthouse eerily quiet.
"Hayden?" she called out softly.
No answer.
She followed the faint clink of glass to the kitchen—and there he was.
Wearing nothing but black lounge pants, barefoot, his tattoos visible in the morning light. He was sipping black coffee at the kitchen island, scrolling through something on his phone.
As if nothing had happened.
As if he hadn't broken her open last night and made her feel things she swore she'd never feel for him.
He looked up when he sensed her presence. His eyes flicked over her—messy hair, flushed cheeks, nothing but his white dress shirt covering her now.
"You're up," he said, tone neutral.
She folded her arms, feeling suddenly exposed. "You left."
"I had things to handle."
Ana narrowed her eyes. "Like what?"
Hayden's gaze didn't flinch. "Business."
"You mean the mafia kind of business?"
He smiled, slow and wolfish. "Is there any other kind?"
She stepped into the kitchen. "So what now? Do you expect me to just pretend nothing happened?"
"No," he said calmly. "I expect you to accept that it did."
He poured her a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter toward her. She didn't move.
"You're not going to apologize?" she asked.
"For what? For making you feel something real?"
Ana's breath caught.
"You think this is real?" she said bitterly. "You're using me. You said it yourself—I'm part of your revenge."
Hayden rounded the counter in two strides. He gripped her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I told you the truth. That you're mine. That hasn't changed."
Her voice trembled. "But you still hate my family."
"Yes," he said darkly. "But I don't hate *you*."
She couldn't breathe.
Because his touch wasn't violent now. It was possessive, yes—but gentle beneath the surface. Dangerous in a way that made her want to lean in instead of run.
"I don't know what you want from me," she whispered.
"I want you to stop lying to yourself," he murmured. "You want me just as much as I want you. That's the only truth that matters now."
He kissed her again—slower this time, but with no less power. She melted into him, her hands gripping his shoulders. His body was hot, solid, unforgiving.
But it wasn't just about lust anymore.
It was about obsession.
Ownership.
Possession.
When he pulled away, his voice was a low growl. "You'll never leave me, Ana. Not after this. Not after what we've shared."
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
"I don't want to belong to someone like you."
He touched her lips with his thumb. "Too late."
She closed her eyes, trying to gather the pieces of herself. But it was hopeless.
She was already his.
And part of her—no matter how much she denied it—wanted to be.