ALEXANDER'S POV
Sleep didn't come. It never does after a kill, but this is different. This isn't the usual cold clarity that keeps me awake. This is a fever. A restless, gnawing itch under my skin that I can't scratch.
Her face is burned onto the back of my eyelids, a ghost with blazing blue eyes that saw my soul and didn't flinch.
The next day finds me in my private training room, the air thick with the smell of sweat and leather. My fists are wrapped, my knuckles already raw.
The heavy bag swings from the ceiling like a condemned man. I'm not training. I'm exorcising.
'Who the fuck is she? A phantom. A tease. A name. I need a fucking name.'
I pour every ounce of frustrated, coiled energy into my fists. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The impact jolts up my arms, a satisfying punishment.
My body is glittering with sweat, muscles screaming, but my mind is still screaming louder. I imagine the bag is my own impatience, my own unfamiliar weakness. I need to pummel it into submission.
Thwack. Her eyes.
Thwack. The defiance in her stare.
Thwack. The fact that she's out there, breathing my air, and I don't own her yet.
The door opens. Lawrence steps in, holding a tablet. He doesn't speak. He knows better than to interrupt.
I deliver one final, brutal blow that sends the bag swinging violently on its chain. My chest heaves, breath sawing in and out of my lungs. I turn my head, my gaze slicing through the humid air towards him.
"What?" I snap, the word a bark.
"We found her," he says.
Everything stops.
The restless energy, the furious pounding of my heart, the noise in my head—it all just… freezes. The world narrows to this single point. The hunt is over. The possession is about to begin.
I slowly unwrap my hands, the stained gauze falling to the floor. I walk over to him, the sweat cooling on my skin. I don't say a word. I just hold out my hand.
He passes me the tablet.
The screen glows to life. And there she is.
It's a perfect shot, taken from across a street. She's stepping out of a black Lamborghini, her head thrown back in laughter, sunlight catching the rich brown of her hair.
She's wearing a sharp, white business dress that hugs every one of her fucking perfect curves. She looks like money and fire, untouchable and proud.
'There you are, princess. No more hiding.'
"Her name is Lara Vik-cross," Lawrence begins, his voice all business.
The name hits me like a physical blow. Vik-cross.
'Vik-cross. Of course. It had to be. The universe is a cruel, poetic fucker.'
"Twenty-three. Only daughter of Bradley Vik-cross," Lawrence continues, watching my face carefully. "Heir to the legitimate empire, Vik-cross Co. Her brothers, Adam and Ronnie, run the Port-Sarphire Syndicate."
A slow, cold smile spreads across my face. It's not a pleasant sight. I can feel the vicious triumph of it.
'Bradley Vik-cross's daughter. His precious, sheltered princess. The one he kept locked away from the filth he created. The man who ordered my father's murder. And his pure, untouched daughter just fell right into my lap.'
I look from the photo of her laughing in the sun back to the memory of her, pale and terrified in the alley. The two images fuse together, creating the most perfect weapon of revenge I could ever have dreamed of.
"Lara Vik-cross," I say, testing the name on my tongue. It tastes like victory. It tastes like ruin.
I hand the tablet back to Lawrence, my mind already racing, plans slotting into place with cold, brutal efficiency.
'This is no longer just an obsession. This is destiny. I'm going to take everything from him, starting with the one thing he thought was safest. I'm going to corrupt his princess, stain her with my touch, and make her mine in every way a woman can be owned. And he'll die knowing it.'
"Good," I finally say, my voice a low, predatory hum. "Now we begin."
– – –
(Present day)
My car is idling across the street from the gleaming tower of Vik-cross Co., a predator resting in the shadow of its prey's den.
The tinted windows are a one-way mirror. I'm not approaching. Not today. Not tomorrow. This is the stalk before the pounce. The savoring of the hunt.
'I just need to see her. The photograph wasn't enough. I need to see the real thing, to see if the fire in her eyes is still burning or if it's been snuffed out by the pretty, polished life her daddy built for her.'
And then, the glass doors slide open, and she walks out.
My breath catches in my throat, just for a fraction of a second. It's a reaction I don't fucking allow. But there she is.
Lara Vik-cross.
She's in a corporate armor of tailored trousers and a cream silk blouse, but it does nothing to hide the truth of her. The trousers cling to the sinful curve of her hips and the long line of her legs. The blouse is tucked in, emphasizing a waist I could circle with my hands. Her hair is pulled back, severe and elegant, making me want to fist it and ruin the perfection.
'Why does she look so fucking sexy? It should be boring. Corporate. But on her, it's a goddamn provocation. It's a challenge to tear it all off and find the wild thing I saw in the alley underneath.'
"Christ," I mutter to the silent, sterile air of the car. "She's a vision."
She's talking to the girl with the fiery red hair—the same impulsive one who pulled her away from me. The friend. Medley, my dossier said. The friend is animated, talking with her hands, a stark contrast to Lara's still, focused intensity.
Then I see it.
In Lara's hand, she's holding my bouquet. The one of crimson roses and black calla lilies. She's carrying it like it's a venomous snake. Her brows are drawn together in a deep, troubled frown as she speaks to Medley. She's not happy. She's not flattered.
She's scared.
A dark, possessive pleasure coils in my gut.
'Good. You should be scared, Princess. You should be feeling me in your world now. In your office. In your hands. You can't wash my stain off.'
I can't hear their words, but I can read the conversation in their bodies. Medley is gesturing to the flowers, probably asking about them. Lara's response is sharp, a shake of her head. She's dismissing it. Dismissing me.
The pleasure in my gut twists into something sharper, darker. A need to be acknowledged. A need to be unavoidable.
She turns away from her friend, the bouquet still clutched in her hand, and gets into a black Lexus LS sedan that purrs to life at the curb. The car pulls away, merging into the flow of traffic, taking her away from me.
I watch it go, my eyes tracking it until it's a speck in the distance.
Lawrence, sitting in the driver's seat, finally speaks. "Do we follow, Boss?"
I don't answer immediately. I let the silence stretch, let the image of her frowning face, of my flowers in her hand, burn itself deeper into my brain.
'She's trying to ignore the storm. She thinks she can lock her doors and it will just pass. She doesn't understand. I'm not a storm you wait out. I'm the flood that washes everything away.'
A slow, cold smile finally touches my lips.
"No," I say, my voice quiet and lethal. "Let her have a few more nights of peace."
I lean back in the leather seat, the ghost of her scent—expensive perfume and pure fear—still haunting me.
'Enjoy your last quiet evenings, Lara Vik-cross. Because soon, I won't be watching from a distance.'
"Soon, I'll be at your door."