His hand clamped onto the back of her neck. His thumb dug into the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear, holding her in place.

Blaire gasped.

Before she could exhale, his mouth crushed onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision.

His lips were hot and hard. He didn't ask for permission; he took it. She tried to keep her mouth shut, to keep her teeth clenched as a barrier, but he nipped her lower lip. Not gently. He bit her.

She gasped in pain, her mouth opening.

He took the opening instantly. His tongue swept into her mouth, deep and demanding, tasting her like he was starving.

A collective gasp went through the church. Then, the sound of a thousand camera shutters clicking at once. Click-click-click-click.

It was obscene. They were on the altar, in front of God and her grandmother, and he was kissing her like they were in a dark alley.

Blaire brought her hands up to his chest to push him away. She shoved against the black wool of his tuxedo.

It was like pushing a brick wall. He didn't move an inch.

Instead, his other arm snaked around her waist. He yanked her against him, eliminating the air between them. Her hips slammed into his.

He was hard.

His thighs were rock solid against hers, and she could feel the heat radiating off him through the layers of silk and wool. He pressed her into his groin, a vulgar, possessive claim that made her knees buckle.

Her brain short-circuited.

The smell of him-sandalwood, expensive scotch, and pure male aggression-filled her nose.

He held the kiss for ten seconds. Ten eternities.

When he finally pulled back, her lips felt swollen. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She stared up at him, dazed, her chest heaving.

Declan's eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. He looked satisfied. Like a cat that had just eaten the canary.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear again.

"Is that too much for you, Mrs. Singleton?" he whispered. His voice was rough. Mocking.

Heat flooded her face. She wanted to scream. She wanted to slap him.

But the crowd erupted into applause.

Declan turned to them, keeping her hand trapped in his. He raised their joined hands in the air, a victory salute.

He looked like a king. Blaire felt like a spoil of war.

"Walk," he commanded under his breath.

They started down the aisle. Her legs were shaking so badly she had to lean on him. He took her weight easily, his arm like an iron band around her waist.

They burst out of the heavy church doors and into the blinding midday sun of Fifth Avenue.

The noise was physical. A roar.

Police barricades held back a mob of onlookers and paparazzi.

"Mr. Singleton! Mr. Singleton!"

"Why the switch?"

"Ms. English! Is this a hostile takeover?"

"Was Jeffery fired?"

Microphones were shoved in their faces.

Declan stopped on the top step. He looked out at the chaos with bored indifference. The crowd quieted down, intimidated by his sheer presence.

A reporter from the Times shouted, "Declan! Why did you step in? Is this a business arrangement?"

Declan looked at the camera. He pulled her tighter against his side, his fingers digging into her hip.

"Because," he said, his voice carrying over the noise, "I couldn't stand the thought of her belonging to anyone else."

Blaire's head snapped up.

He said it with such conviction. For a split second, her heart skipped a beat.

Then she remembered who he was. A liar. A shark.

He guided her down the stairs and into the back of a waiting Rolls Royce Phantom. The heavy door thudded shut, sealing out the noise.

Silence. Instant, cold silence.

The moment the door closed, Declan released her. He didn't just let go; he recoiled. He slid to the far side of the leather bench seat, putting as much distance between them as possible.

The mask fell.

The passion, the possessiveness, the heat-it all vanished.

He pulled out his iPhone and started typing furiously. His face was a blank slate.

Blaire sat there, stunned. Her lips were still tingling from his bite. Her body was still humming from the contact. And he was checking his email.

She felt dirty. Used.

She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and wiped her lips hard, trying to scrub off the taste of him.

"Don't," Declan said. He didn't look up from his phone.

"Don't what?" she snapped.

"Don't rub your mouth raw. We're going to a reception, not the ER. You need to look perfect."

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a white linen handkerchief. He held it out to her without looking at her.

"Here."

Blaire stared at the handkerchief. She wanted to throw it in his face.

Instead, she snatched it from his hand. She crumpled it in her fist, her nails digging into her palms.

"You're despicable," she whispered.

"I'm your husband," he corrected, scrolling through a message. "Get used to the difference."

The car turned onto Fifth Avenue, heading toward The Pierre.

"Where are we going after the reception?" she asked, her voice hollow. "I assume I'm going back to my apartment to pack?"

Declan finally looked up. His eyes were cold again.

"No," he said. "You're moving into my penthouse on Central Park West. Tonight."

"I am not," she argued. "We can maintain separate residences. It's a fake marriage, Declan."

"It's a real marriage, Blaire," he said softly. "With real assets and real public scrutiny. You are moving in. Tonight. Prepare yourself."

He went back to his phone.

Blaire looked out the window as the city blurred by. She felt like a prisoner being transferred to a maximum-security facility.

The ballroom at The Pierre was a golden cage. Crystal chandeliers, thousands of white roses, and enough champagne to drown a navy.

Blaire stood in the bridal suite bathroom, staring at herself.

Her mother, Eleanor, stood behind her. She wasn't hugging her. She was fixing a stray curl on her head.

"You look pale," she criticized. "Pinch your cheeks. We need color."

"Mom," Blaire said, her voice flat. "Jeffery left me."

"And Declan saved us," her mother snapped. "Do you have any idea how lucky we are? The Singleton capital injection is already pending. Your father is breathing for the first time in months."

"I'm not a business asset, Mom. I'm your daughter."

Eleanor paused. For a second, Blaire thought she might soften.

"You are an English," her mother said firmly. "Act like it. Now go out there and make your husband happy."

She turned and left.

Blaire let out a shaky breath. She grabbed her red lipstick-her war paint-and applied a fresh coat. She looked like a killer. Good.

She walked back out. Declan was waiting near the entrance. He was surrounded by board members, holding a tumbler of scotch. He looked relaxed. Powerful.

Blaire walked toward him.

Before she reached him, a woman intercepted him.

Fiona Witt.

She was wearing a silver dress that was barely legal. She was beautiful, rich, and had been trying to claw her way into Declan's bed for three years.

She placed a hand on Declan's forearm. She leaned in close, her chest brushing his arm.

"Declan," she purred. "What a... surprise today was. You, playing the hero? It's so unlike you."

Blaire stopped. A knot of jealousy tightened in her stomach. Not because she wanted Declan, but because Fiona was disrespecting her. Disrespecting her position.

She started to turn away. She didn't want to deal with this.

Declan's hand shot out.

He didn't look at her, but he caught her wrist as she tried to pass. His grip was iron.

He yanked her to his side. His arm went around her waist, clamping her against his hip.

"Fiona," Declan said, his voice bored. He used his free hand to peel Fiona's fingers off his sleeve like she was a piece of lint. "Have you met my wife?"

Fiona's smile faltered.

"Blaire," she said, her tone dripping with acid. "Congrats. Though I hear second choices are... disappointing."

"Careful," Declan said. His voice dropped. It wasn't loud, but it was lethal. "You are speaking to Mrs. Singleton. If you disrespect her, you disrespect me. And you know what happens to people who disrespect me."

Fiona went pale. She swallowed hard, took a step back, and disappeared into the crowd.

Blaire looked up at Declan, shocked.

He looked down at her. "Don't wander off," he muttered. "You're my shield against these vultures."

"Is that all I am?" she asked.

"For now."

The DJ's voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, please clear the floor for Mr. and Mrs. Singleton's first dance!"

Declan took her glass of champagne and set it on a passing tray.

"Showtime," he said.

He led her to the center of the floor. He placed one hand on her waist and took her other hand.

The music started. A classic waltz.

Declan moved with surprising grace. He led her effortlessly, his body guiding hers.

His hand on her back was hot. His fingers splayed wide, touching bare skin. Every time he pulled her closer, she felt the hardness of his chest.

"You're tense," he murmured.

"I'm dancing with the enemy," she replied.

"I'm not your enemy, Blaire. I'm your savior."

"You're an opportunist."

"Same thing."

She tried to step out of rhythm, just to annoy him. To prove she had some control.

He corrected her instantly. He spun her out and yanked her back in, dipping her low.

Her hair swept the floor. His face was inches from hers.

"In the boardroom, you can argue," he whispered, his eyes locked on her lips. "In the bedroom, you can fight. But on the dance floor? You follow me."

Her breath hitched. The double entendre hung in the air, heavy and thick.

He pulled her upright.

Barrett appeared at the edge of the dance floor as the song ended. He looked anxious.

"Declan," Barrett started. "About the restructuring of the Asian division..."

Declan didn't even look at him.

"Not tonight, Barrett," Declan said coldly. "It's my wedding night. I'm not discussing business."

"But-"

"Go away," Declan said.

Barrett retreated.

Blaire stared at Declan. He had just dismissed her brother-the CEO-like a servant. And strangely... she liked it. Barrett had been weak today. Declan was strong.

"Let's go," Declan said abruptly.

"The cake hasn't been cut," she said.

"I don't care about the cake."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the exit. The crowd cheered, thinking they were eager lovers rushing off to consummate the marriage.

They reached the elevators.

Declan didn't wait. He swept her up into his arms, bridal style.

"Declan!" she shrieked, grabbing his neck instinctively.

"Shut up," he grunted, carrying her into the elevator.

The doors closed. The noise of the party vanished.

It was just them. In a small metal box.

She could feel his heart beating against her side. It was steady. Slow.

"Put me down," she said.

"Save your energy," he said, looking straight ahead at the floor numbers. "It's going to be a long night."

Her stomach did a flip.

"What does that mean?" she whispered.

He didn't answer.

The elevator opened to the private garage. His driver was waiting.

They got in. The car pulled out, heading toward Central Park West. Toward his fortress. Toward the unknown.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.

It was vast. That was the first thing Blaire noticed. The ceilings were twenty feet high. The walls were glass, offering a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline that cost more than her life.

But it was cold.

Everything was gray, black, or white. Minimalist. Sharp edges. No photos. No flowers. It looked like a museum, not a home.

An older woman in a crisp uniform was waiting by the foyer.

"Good evening, Mr. Singleton," she said. She looked at Blaire, her eyes widening slightly. "And... Mrs. Singleton."

"Mrs. Higgins," Declan said, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket. He handed it to her. "This is Blaire."

"Welcome, madam," she said politely.

"Where is the guest room?" Blaire asked, clutching her clutch like a shield. "I'd like to unpack."

Mrs. Higgins paused. She looked at Declan, confused.

"The other bedrooms are part of my private wing," Declan said. He was unbuttoning his cuffs. "They are not for guests. You will sleep in the master suite."

"This place is eight thousand square feet," Blaire said, looking around. "Don't tell me there's only one bed."

"There are three bedrooms," Declan said calmly. "But Mrs. Higgins, put her bags in the master suite."

"Yes, sir." Mrs. Higgins grabbed Blaire's luggage and scurried away.

"Declan!" Blaire snapped.

He turned to her. He walked closer, forcing her to back up until her heels hit the wall of the foyer.

He placed one hand on the wall next to her head. He leaned in.

"We are married, Blaire," he said. "The Singleton family does not do separate bedrooms. It implies dysfunction."

"This is dysfunction!" she argued. "It's a business deal!"

"I spent two billion dollars to merge our companies," he said, his voice low. "Do you think I did that to have a roommate?"

Blaire stared at him. "You... you expect..."

"I expect a wife," he said. "Go shower. You smell like fear and hairspray."

He pushed off the wall and walked toward the bar.

Blaire stood there, shaking.

She turned and followed Mrs. Higgins.

The master bedroom was enormous. And right in the center was a bed. A massive, California King bed with black silk sheets. It looked like an altar to sin.

Her clothes were already hanging in the closet. Her bright, colorful dresses looked ridiculous next to his row of severe black suits.

She went into the bathroom. It was all marble and glass.

She saw his razor. His cologne. His toothbrush.

She felt like an intruder.

She locked the door. She turned on the shower, making it scalding hot. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the day.

She stayed in there for forty minutes.

Finally, the water turned cold. She turned it off.

She reached for a towel and dried off. Then she realized she had forgotten her pajamas. They were in the suitcase in the bedroom.

"Damn it," she whispered.

She looked around. There was a black robe hanging on the back of the door.

She had no choice.

She put it on. It was huge. The sleeves hung past her hands. It smelled like him-that intoxicating mix of cedar and spice. Being wrapped in it felt like being hugged by him.

She took a deep breath. He's probably asleep. Or downstairs.

She unlocked the door and stepped out.

The room was dim.

Declan was sitting in a leather armchair by the window. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had taken off his shirt.

Her breath caught.

He was... sculpted. Layers of hard muscle shifted under his skin as he raised the glass to his lips. A dusting of dark hair covered his chest, trailing down his flat stomach and disappearing into his dress pants.

He looked at her.

His eyes swept over her wet hair, down the oversized robe, to her bare feet.

He didn't say a word. He just stared. The air in the room grew heavy. Charged.

Blaire pulled the lapels of the robe tighter.

"I... I'm going to sleep on the sofa," she stammered.

Declan set the glass down. The sound of crystal hitting the coaster was sharp.

He stood up.

He walked toward her. Slow. Predatory.

"The bed is big enough, Blaire," he said. "Don't make me carry you."

She looked at the bed. Then at him.

She knew he would do it.

"Fine," she whispered.

She walked to the far side of the bed. She dropped the robe and scrambled under the covers before he could see anything. She lay on the very edge, her back to the room.

The mattress dipped.

Declan got in.

He was hot. Like a furnace. She could feel his body heat radiating across the six inches of space between them.

She held her breath, waiting for him to touch her. To demand his "rights."

"Goodnight, Blaire," he said.

His voice was right behind her ear.

Then, the light clicked off.

She lay there in the dark, eyes wide open, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.