Chapter 5: Shadows of Paris

The temperature in the penthouse had begun to drop, a subtle chill creeping across the marble floors as the building’s climate control struggled against the external hack. Dominic had moved to the leather sofa, a bottle of vintage scotch sitting uncorked on the coffee table. The amber liquid glowed like a warning light.

Sloane stood by the window, the charcoal silk of his robe heavy against her bare skin. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath; the realization made her skin prickle with a dangerous heat that had nothing to do with the cold. Every time she moved, the silk slid over her curves, a constant, tactile reminder that she was wrapped in him.

"You’re thinking about the Rue Cler," Dominic said, his voice a low, rough velvet that vibrated in the small of her back.

Sloane didn’t turn. "I’m thinking about how much I hate you."

"Liar." She heard the clink of glass, then the soft thud of his footsteps on the rug. He stopped just behind her. He didn't touch her, but the sheer wall of his body heat was enough to make her breath hitch. "You’re thinking about the apartment with the balcony that overlooked the bakery. You’re thinking about how the flour used to drift through the windows like snow while I traced the line of your spine with my mouth."

"Stop," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut. The memory hit her like a physical blow—Dominic’s hands, larger and stronger than anyone’s, moving over her with a tenderness that had felt like a promise. Back then, he hadn't been a titan of industry. He had been a man who stayed awake just to watch her sleep.

"Why, Sloane? Because it hurts to remember that I’m the only man who truly knows how you like to be touched? Or because it hurts to know that despite everything, you still want me to do it again?"

He reached out then, his hand sliding beneath the heavy fall of her hair to cup the back of her neck. His thumb traced the sensitive skin behind her ear, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a liquid fire straight to her thighs. Sloane leaned back involuntarily, her head resting against his chest. She could hear his heart—steady, powerful, and far too fast.

"You destroyed my father," she choked out, even as she tilted her head to give him better access.

"I saved you from a sinking ship," he countered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. "Your father was a genius, but he was a fossil. The Vultures were circling, Sloane. They didn't just want the company; they wanted to strip you of your name, your trust, your future. I took it all first so I could keep it safe for you."

"By breaking my heart?" She turned in his arms, her hands coming up to rest against his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt. "You let me walk away. You let me believe you were the monster."

Dominic’s gaze dropped to her lips, his dark eyes clouded with a hunger so raw it made her knees weak. "I am a monster, Sloane. But I’m your monster. And if I have to be the villain in your story to keep you alive, then I’ll play the part until the credits roll."

He leaned in, his scent—sandalwood, rain, and expensive smoke—filling her senses. For a moment, the world outside, the hackers, and the lockdown ceased to exist. There was only the friction of silk against skin and the jagged edge of a desire that had been starving for three long years.

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