Chapter 4 Near kiss
POV: Elara
The proximity is intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure. My pulse hammers against my throat, and I pray he can't see how his nearness affects me. How the heat radiating from his body makes me want to step closer instead of pulling away.
"You're trembling," he observes, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my bones.
"I'm angry," I snap, but the words come out breathier than I intended.
"Are you?" His gaze drops to my lips for just a moment—so brief I might have imagined it—before meeting my eyes again. "Or are you something else entirely?"
The air between us crackles with an energy I don't want to name. This is wrong. He's the enemy. The man who destroyed my life, my career, everything I worked for. And yet...
"I hate you," I whisper, but the words lack conviction.
"I know." His hand comes up, fingers barely grazing my cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it burns. "The question is... what else do you feel?"
I should step back. Should slap his hand away. Should do anything except stand here drowning in the intensity of his gaze. But my body betrays me, leaning infinitesimally closer to his touch.
"Nothing," I lie through my teeth.
His thumb traces the line of my jaw, and I shiver despite myself. "Liar."
The word is said without malice, almost fondly, and that's somehow worse than his earlier cruelty. This gentleness feels more dangerous than any threat.
"You don't know me," I breathe.
"Don't I?" He's so close now that our breaths mingle. His eyes search mine, reading secrets I don't want to reveal. "I know you're stronger than you think. I know you're stubborn as hell. I know you'd rather burn than bow."
His words wrap around me like a caress, and I hate how much I want to believe the admiration I hear in his voice.
"I know," he continues, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "that you're fighting something right now. Something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with this."
His free hand settles on my waist, not constraining, just... there. A point of contact that sends heat shooting through my entire body.
"This what?" I challenge, though my voice is barely steady.
"This pull between us. This electricity." His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and I can't suppress the soft gasp that escapes. "You feel it too."
I do. God help me, I do. Standing here in his arms feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, terror and exhilaration warring in my chest. The smart thing would be to step back, to put distance between us before I do something I'll regret.
"You're delusional," I say, but I don't pull away.
"Am I?" His lips are so close to mine now that I can feel their warmth. "Tell me you don't feel it, and I'll let you go right now."
The words stick in my throat. Because I do feel it—this maddening attraction that defies all logic and reason. This man ruined my life, and yet standing here with him feels more alive than I've felt in months.
"I..." I start, but the words die as his gaze drops to my lips again, lingering this time.
"Dance for me."
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.
I jerk back, blinking in confusion. "What?"
The spell breaks, and reality crashes back in with brutal clarity. His hands fall away from me, but his expression remains maddeningly calm.
"Dance for me," he repeats, stepping back and gesturing toward the center of the room. "And I'll give you five thousand dollars. Plus protection from the feeding frenzy outside."
For a moment, I can't process what he's saying. How we went from almost kissing to a cold transaction leaves me reeling.
"You're joking," I say flatly.
"Do I look like I'm joking?" His voice is businesslike now, as if the last few minutes never happened. "Five thousand dollars, Elara. When's the last time you saw that kind of money?"
The casual cruelty of it—the way he can switch from tender to ruthless in a heartbeat—steals the breath from my lungs.
"I'm not a stripper," I spit.
"No," he agrees, settling back into his chair like a king on his throne. "You're a woman who needs money. Badly. Unless you'd prefer to walk out there and face the cameras empty-handed?"
"I won't debase myself for your entertainment."
"Won't you?" He tilts his head, studying me with clinical detachment. "You've already debased yourself just by being here. At least this way, you get paid for it."
Each word is a carefully placed cut, designed to wound. And it works. Shame burns in my chest, mixing with rage until I can barely see straight.
"I said no."
"Five thousand dollars," he repeats, unmoved by my refusal. "More money than you've made in the last three months combined. Enough to pay off Gallo and still have some left over."
The mention of my debt collector makes my stomach lurch. How does he know about Gallo?
"How did you—"
"I make it my business to know things," he says simply. "Especially about people who interest me. Did you really think a man like Gallo would keep your business private?"
The room feels smaller suddenly, the walls closing in. He knows about my debts. My eviction. Probably knows exactly how desperate I am.
"You're despicable," I whisper.
"I'm practical." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You need money. I need entertainment. It's a simple transaction."
"I won't do it."
"Then you'll leave here with nothing. No money, no protection, no way out of the hole you've dug yourself into." His voice is matter-of-fact, devoid of emotion. "And tomorrow, when Gallo comes calling again, you'll wish you'd swallowed your pride."
"My pride is all I have left," I say through gritted teeth.
"Pride doesn't pay rent, darling. Pride doesn't keep food on the table or thugs away from your door." He stands, smoothing down his jacket. "But if you'd rather cling to it than accept my help, that's your choice."
He moves toward the door, and panic flares in my chest. He's calling my bluff, and we both know I can't afford to lose.
"Wait," I call out, hating myself for the word.
He pauses, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"
"If I... if I do this..." The words taste like ash. "How do I know you'll keep your word?"
He turns back to me, and for just a moment, something like respect flickers in his eyes. "Because unlike you, I don't make promises I can't keep."
The barb hits home, a reminder of my failed career, my ruined reputation. Everything I promised myself I could accomplish, gone up in smoke.
"Just... dancing?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Just dancing." His smile is sharp. "Unless you want to negotiate additional terms."
"No." The word comes out harsher than intended. "Just dancing."
"Then we have a deal?"
I close my eyes, feeling the last shreds of my dignity slip away like sand through my fingers. But dignity doesn't pay debts. Dignity doesn't put food on the table.
"We have a deal," I whisper.
When I open my eyes, his smile is triumphant, predatory. He's won, and we both know it.
"Excellent," he purrs, settling back into his chair like he's about to enjoy a show. "Then dance, little bird. Let's see what you're really made of."