The city at night had a pulse that matched hers—fast, electric, impossible to ignore. Celeste stepped out of her car, heels clicking against the pavement, every eye drawn to her as if the world itself acknowledged her power. But she didn't feel like herself tonight. Not entirely. Because he was there.
He waited at the edge of the street, dark coat brushing his knees, hands tucked casually in pockets—but the intensity in his gaze made it clear: he had been watching, waiting, and he would not let her out of his sight.
"You came," she said, voice steady but breathless. She hated that her heartbeat betrayed her.
"I told you. You're mine tonight," he said, stepping closer. The warmth radiating from him was dangerous, irresistible. She could smell his cologne, faint, smoky, and intoxicating.
Before she could respond, a screech of tires cut through the quiet. A sleek black car screeched to a halt near the curb. Two men jumped out, eyes locked on her, smirks cruel. Danger. Immediate, sharp, undeniable.
He moved first. One fluid step, and he was in front of her, a wall of dark, dangerous energy. "Back off," he said, low and lethal. His hand found hers, gripping with possessive force that made her pulse spike. She had always been in control. Always. Yet here, under the shadow of his gaze, she felt powerless—and she didn't mind.
The men hesitated, and that was enough. With a few swift movements, he disarmed the threat—not violently, not unnecessarily—but with a precision that left no doubt: he was dangerous, protective, and utterly untouchable.
Celeste's breath caught. She had faced boardroom battles, corporate takeovers, even betrayal from allies. But this—this closeness to someone who would literally kill for her—was thrilling in ways she hadn't anticipated.
He looked down at her then, eyes burning, dark and smoldering. "You shouldn't be out alone," he said, voice rougher now. Protective. Possessive. Demanding.
"I can handle myself," she said, though her hands trembled slightly where his still held hers.
"Not from them," he countered, and with a near-imperceptible tilt of his head, he drew her closer. "From me? You have no choice."
The air between them crackled with tension. A storm of desire and danger. Celeste had always prided herself on being untouchable, untamed. Yet tonight, she felt the fire behind his eyes, and it mirrored a fire she'd buried deep inside.
For the first time in years, she let herself lean in. Let herself feel the pull of someone who could match her intensity, who could claim her without apology, without fear.
"You're reckless," she whispered, voice low, almost a surrender.
"Only for you," he said, his lips brushing her temple, a promise, a threat, a claim.
And in that moment, Celeste Moreau—the cold, untouchable empress—realized something terrifying and exhilarating: she didn't want to be untouchable anymore. Not from him.