Chapter 14: Chapter Thirteen

Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to snap back, “Then what? What happens now you’ve found me?”

His grin sharpened. “Then, princess… I collect. I promised you back then that I was coming back to get you, didn't I now?”

Silence swallowed her. The weight of his words pressed against her ribcage, her skin, her very bones. The car rolled on, the lights outside blurring past.

And though she sat rigid, forcing her eyes to the dark window, she could feel his gaze on her the entire way.

All of a sudden, as if to replenish her scent in his memory, he grabbed her again and made her straddle him with his hand in her hair.

For a moment, she felt the dizzying press of his hot mouth against her throat and she felt the wetness of his tongue as his teeth grazed her skin, not biting, but nibbling and sucking.

When they reached her building, he let her go. His hand loosened in her hair, sliding away, leaving her disoriented and trembling.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of her building. She blinked, realizing that he hadn’t needed her directions for real.

Her eyes narrowed. “You…”

He smirked, leaning back with infuriating calm. “I told you that I have always had my eyes on your every movement, this shouldn't surprise you at all. “

She didn't know what to make of the situation.

The driver opened the door silently, waiting for her to come out. Realizing she was still sitting on him, she slid off his lap as quickly as she could, her legs unsteady, her body betraying her with a heat she hated herself for. She scrambled out of the car, desperate for air, but his voice followed her, a raw promise that froze her in place.

“Run all you want, angel. Fight all you want. But the next time I have you in my space…” His gaze burned into hers from the shadowed interior. “You won’t walk away untouched and in one piece.”

The door of the car shut, the black-tinted window rolling up slowly, sealing him back into the darkness.

She stood on the sidewalk, heart hammering from fear and something darker coursing through her veins.

Inside her chest, a storm raged. He was psychotic. He was dangerous. And yet… her body still trembled from his touch.

The car pulled away, vanishing into the night, leaving her stranded with a truth more terrifying than his threats.

She wanted nothing to do with him.

And yet, she couldn’t stop the ache that lingered where his hands had touched.

Mirabella woke up around 3pm in the afternoon before her alarm and lay still, listening to the city hum through the thin walls of her apartment. Devotion to survival had turned into habit; habit into ritual. She listed the things she could control: breath, coffee, clothes, the route she’d walk. She listed what she couldn’t: Hunter Groves, the way his voice clung to her like smoke, the way the car door had closed on her last night and the world had narrowed to heat, and threat given as a promise.

Trapped was a word she refused to give her mouth. But the feeling crept along her ribs anyway.

Mirabella sat up, swung her feet over the side, and planted them on the cold wood floor.

“I’m not quitting,” she told the ceiling, then the mirror. “I’m not going to run away because he owns the roof.”

She thought of how she was going to tell Hilda and Aria about her encountering the man she was supposed to stay hidden from. They were going to be terrified, and they would eventually ask her to quit. Worse, Hilda could go as far as asking her to travel far from here, and she wouldn't want that. So, she resolved to keep it to herself for now.

She made coffee as the sun shone through the clouds.

She dressed up in her hostess uniform, black slacks, black heels, a satin camisole beneath a fitted blazer that cinched to her waist. The curves of her hips were visible and detailed. She packed her long dark hair into a neat low ponytail. Her lipstick; a neutral shade, her eyes a thin line of mascara.

By evening, Devil’s Den breathed her in. The chandeliers wore their own colours, and the low bass thumped like a second heart. She loved and hated the place for the same reason: it pretended to be a playground, but on her very first day, it became more like a cage.

Saraphina saw her first near the back bar, sliding a glass of water across the counter with the grace of a woman who was in control. “You came back,” she said, eyes warm and worried.

“Why wouldn’t I though?” Mirabella’s smile was small, real. “I won't give him what he wants; fear.”

“Darling, Hunter feeds on fear, yes. But even without it, he still gets what he wants,” Saraphina’s mouth quivered. “You’ll either be addicted or addicted.”

“Or both,” Mirabella said.

“Or both,” Saraphina gave a small laugh to her joke. “But seriously, it will only be safer if you quit, or not. Running away won't help either,” she sighed.

“Don't worry about me Phina, I will be just fine,” she gave her a reassuring smile. But she could still see the doubt in Saraphina's eyes.

Harper swept in, tall and composed in black, her scent a bright citrus that cut through the air. “Ready, newbie?”

“Always,” Mirabella said.

“You ok? She asked her. Mira gave her a smile.

“I'm perfect.”

Rain joined them by the host stand, compact and quick-eyed. “Hey girls,” she greeted them.

“Hey, you're not stripping for us tonight?” Mirabella asked jokingly.

“Oh no, I am keeping malice with the poles tonight,” she laughed. “We’re stacked in the east VIP. You with me?”

“Lead,” Mirabella said. “I’ll follow.”

The first hour passed in the comfort of rules. Greet, seat, smile; know who wants silence and who wants to be seen. She learned the regulars’ drinks, how to read the twitch of a jaw before a man decided to be a problem. Harper shared a look and a nod across a crowded aisle; Rain’s palm brushed her forearm once in quiet approval when she redirected a drunk from a private booth without a ripple. Saraphina murmured a secret about a tech investor who tipped in watches if he liked your eyes. They worked like an agency under a mission.

Mirabella kept moving, because motion meant she didn’t have to feel the change in air when the balcony lights dimmed. Saraphina had warned her about it. She knew he was watching her.

“Ms. Antonio.”

Tobias arrived without sound, in a dark suit. He wore formality like his second skin. There was an old scar bisecting his knuckle, the only softness she has seen in him. His voice was flat stone.

“Hunter requests you in the penthouse above.”

Mirabella turned, holding a leather-bound list to keep her hands busy. “I believe you can see that I’m working.”

“He hates to wait,” Tobias said sharply.

Her friends noticed the drama. Saraphina, farther down the bar, went still with worry.

Mirabella kept her voice even. “Tell him I’ll come up when I serve my tables.”

Tobias didn’t blink. “You should reconsider.”

“I have,” Mirabella replied. “The answer is still the same.”

He gave the faintest nod. “Very well.” And walked away as if nothing in the world could surprise him. Maybe nothing could. He works for a devil after all.

“Girl,” Harper breathed, stepping into Mirabella’s space, “that is not a current you want to swim against. You should go.”

“I’m not swimming,” Mirabella said, her throat dry. “I’m working.”

Rain nudged her shoulder. “He’s not used to being told to wait.”

“Good for him,” Mirabella muttered. “He can learn it now.”

Saraphina only looked at her for a long second, something like admiration deep in her eyes. Of course she admires Mirabella's courage. No one has openly said no to Hunter

before. “Be careful where you plant the fence,” she said softly. “He has a habit of moving the border.”

Minutes stretched by and the club’s pulse sharpened. The dim lights dimmed again, and the crowd shifted as if a cloud had rolled in. Mirabella felt him before she saw him.

Hunter descended the stairs in his alpha male strides, all in black, the two top buttons of his shirt were undone, displaying the ripped muscles underneath. He drew the attention of the room toward him without asking. Eyes slipped his way and then away, as if looking too long might signal interest or insolence. He crossed the floor with the strides of a man who knew very well the impact he had on the crowd.

He stopped in front of her. Very close, even invading her breathing space. His eyes found hers, and for a second the club ceased to exist. Her body tensed remembering the promise he made her in the early hours of the morning after her shift; when next I have you in my space, you would not go unwrapped!.

“Mirabella,” he breathed her name like a prayer, tasting it on his lips. “You’re late.”

“For what,” she asked sarcastically, “more orders?”

“For me.”

Using a black pen, she marked something on the list she was holding. “I have work.”

His gaze flicked once at her mouth, once at her hands holding a list, then back to her eyes. “You have me.”

Her laugh was nervous. “I don’t have anything of yours. You can say whatever it is you want here.”

Hunter’s smile ghosted. “Don’t make me remind you in front of an audience,” he said smoothly. “Follow me now, or I will kiss you and then turn you around and fuck you very hard here. That way everyone will learn the kind of sounds you make when you have a huge cock inside of you,” he whispered close to her ear.

Heat shot under her skin, unwanted. She was infuriated. She didn’t know if it was anger, shame, or something darker. The crowd hum sharpened without even becoming silent. So many eyes were on them or him. But she didn't miss the worried look her colleagues gave her. None of them could say anything.

“Five minutes,” Mirabella bit out. “And then I will come back to my work.”

“I’ll take more.” Hunter turned. “Walk.”

She did because not doing would mean being carried or worse, being used in front of a bunch of people who won't even say a word, and she refused to give the room that picture. They crossed the main floor, past the long obsidian bar where Mario pretended to polish a glass with more attention than necessary. Hunter pressed his palm to a brass plate. The private elevator slid open.

He didn't say a word to her. He didn’t touch her either. He didn’t have to. The small space filled with him anyway—his scent, leather and citrus and something warm and wicked; the dark energy coming from his body. His jaw was set as though he was holding or controlling himself from doing something. She kept her eyes on their reflections in the black glass. Somehow they looked like a kind of storm.

The doors parted at the penthouse level with a discreet chime. They stepped into silence that felt expensive. Hunter’s penthouse living room spilled in shades of char and slate, low couches, a fireplace lit only by its own reflections. The space felt like a threat delivered softly. She followed him behind as he opened another door by the left; his office. The office stretched in steel and shadow: floor-to-ceiling glass framing the city’s steel bones; a long marble table veined in dark gold; leather chairs sat at one corner of the office and a throne like leather chair sat behind the table; a tall glass window where you could view everything below and beyond; a black piano sleeping in the corner.

Hunter didn’t ask her to sit. He didn’t sit either. He circled her once, assessing her with a focus that prickled her skin and made her uncomfortable. The city light flickered across his cheekbones; the room made him a silhouette and a blade. He stood in front of her, and then took a few steps forward, but with each step he took, she reciprocated. Until her back hit the table behind her.

“You disobeyed me Bella, you always do,” he said calmly.

“I didn't. I only delayed,” she corrected.

His eyes warmed the way a flame does when you open a vent. “You’re excellent at testing my patience,” he murmured. “Do you not fear that I can snap at any moment?”

She held the table with one hand because she needed something solid that wasn’t him. “Say what you dragged me up here to say. I have a shift to go back to.”

He stepped close enough for the heat of him to graze her chest. “You’re going to stop pretending this is a job like any other. You’re going to stop dodging my eyes on a floor I own and control. You’re going to answer when I call.”

“I’m not your slave,” she said evenly.

“No,” he agreed. “You’re a wild thing. I'd like to tame.”

He moved in a single, decisive motion, his hands at her waist, a flex shear of strength. Mirabella’s breath caught as he lifted her, setting her on the cool edge of the marble table. She reached to push him away, but his large palms bracketed her hips: firmly. He stepped between her knees, parted them with his thighs until the satin at her inner thighs met the heat of his suit trousers.

Her heart stuttered. “Hunter.”

“If you say stop,” he said, voice low and unblinking. “I will keep going. If you resist me, I will pin you down and continue. I’m going to kiss you. I’m going to tell you what I’ll do to you. I’m going to touch you where you’re already warm for me. Places where no other man has ever touched you before. Or have you been touched before?”

She hated that he was right about the last part. She hated that he even asked that. But what was she feeling? Why was her body so hot and aching? What was he doing to her?

A breath, ragged. “You’re a monster.”

He smiled, slow and ruinous. “And you’re burning for your monster.”