The name Elias was a literal ghost. I spent the afternoon hidden in the library, tucked behind a shelf of dusty law books where the camera couldn't quite see my hands. 

I searched every database I could find on the guest computer and flipped through the back of every ledger. Nothing....No Elias.... No phone record. My father's only lead was a dead end, and it felt like the air was being sucked out of the room. Maybe he's dead...Maybe he never existed. I shoved the journal deep into my waistband and headed back to my room before Marcus could find another reason to loom over me.

The silence of my suite was broken the second I stepped inside. Mrs. Gable was there, standing like a short bitch  in the center of the room. 

On the bed, she had laid out a dress that looked like it belonged to a nun...high neck, long sleeves, and a dusty grey color that made me want to gag. "Mr. Volkov expects you for a formal dinner tonight," she said, her voice clipping every word like a pair of shears. "Put this on. The stylist will be here in ten minutes to deal with... that." She gestured vaguely at my face.

"I'm not wearing that," I said, looking at the grey heap. "It look like a rainy day in a basement." Mrs. Gable's eyes turned into slits, and she told me that modesty was a requirement for an asset of my status. She said the dress was selected to reflect the purity of the project. 

Purity. Like I'm a prize cow. I waited until she marched out to check on the kitchen before I lunged for the walk-in closet.

I tore through the hangers, pushing aside the beiges and the creams that Darian clearly wanted me to wear. I needed something else. I needed to stop being the girl who got pushed around. If Darian wanted a masterpiece, I would give him one he couldn't handle. 

My hands snagged on something heavy and cold. It was a gown made of midnight-black silk, so dark it looked like it was drinking the light in the room. It was backless, with a side zipper that looked dangerously thin. It wasn't pure...It was a weapon.

I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the silk. It felt like cool water sliding over my skin, but as I reached for the side zipper, my fingers fumbled. The fabric was tight..too tight and the teeth of the zipper wouldn't catch. I strained, twisting my torso and cursing under my breath. 

My skin was flushed from the heat of the room and the frustration of being trapped in a piece of clothing I couldn't even close. Stupid dress. Stupid house.

The temperature in the room didn't just drop literally it died. I didn't hear the door open, but I felt the shift in the air. 

I froze, my hands still hooked awkwardly behind my ribs, my back completely exposed to the room. I saw him in the reflection of the full-length mirror. Darian was standing in the doorway, watching me struggle. He didn't look away he didn't even apologize. He just walked toward me with the slow, predatory gait of a man who owned everything he looked at.

I tried to pull the front of the dress up, my heart thudding against my lungs like a trapped bird. "You're not supposed to be in here," I gasped, my voice cracking. Darian didn't answer until he was standing directly behind me. I could see the contrast in the mirror: my pale, trembling skin against the sharp, dark lines of his expensive suit. He reached out, and I flinched, but he didn't grab me.

His fingers were like ice as they grazed the bare skin of my spine. I shivered, a violent jolt traveling from my neck down to my heels. He placed his hand at the base of the zipper and slowly, agonizingly, began to pull it up. I watched his eyes in the mirror. They weren't cold anymore; they were dark with something that made my stomach do a slow, sick flip. 

His knuckles brushed against my ribs as the silk tightened around my waist, sealing me inside.

"You are so weak, Liora," he whispered. His breath was warm against the back of my ear, a direct contradiction to the coldness of his touch. He didn't pull away once the dress was zipped. He lingered, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, right where my hair ended. My brain was screaming at me to run, to scream, to push him away. He's the monster. He bought you. But as his fingers stayed there, pressing just hard enough to make my breath catch, a new thought pushed through the fear.

 A messy, dangerous thought. He likes this. I looked at our reflection...the way he was looming over me, the way his jaw was set tight. Darian Volkov thought he was the one in control because he had the money and the walls. But he was reacting to me. He was breathing harder than he was a minute ago.

I leaned my head back, just a fraction of an inch, letting my hair brush against his hand. I saw his pupils blow wide in the mirror. He's human, I realized. He's a man, and men have weak spots. If I couldn't find Elias, and I couldn't find a way out through the walls, I would find a way out through him. 

I needed to play the part. I needed to stop fighting the cage and start seducing the guard.

"Is that what you think?" I whispered back, my voice steadier than I felt. I forced myself to turn around in his space, my chest almost brushing his. I looked up at him, my eyes tracing the hard line of his mouth. "That I'm weak?"

Darian's hand dropped from my neck, but he didn't step back. He looked down at me like I was a puzzle he was tempted to break. "I think you're a girl playing a game you don't understand," he said, his voice raspy. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering on my cheek for a second too long before he checked himself.

"Dinner is in five minutes," he said, his mask of ice sliding back into place. "Don't make me wait." He turned on his heel and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stood in the center of the room, my skin still tingling where he had touched me. I looked at the stranger in the black dress. I didn't look like the girl from the diner anymore. I looked like a threat. My heart was still racing, but for the first time, it wasn't just from terror. It was from the realization that even a man like Darian had a price. And I was going to make sure he paid it.

The mansion was a maze designed by a psychopath.

I was running through the hallway and my heels were slipping on the polished floor. I was supposed to be at dinner five minutes ago but I couldn't find the damn room. Anya wasn't there to guide me and every door looked exactly the same...tall, heavy, and expensive.

Where is the food in this house? I turned a corner and almost slammed into a suit of armor. I cursed under my breath. 

"Stupid rich house and its stupid layout," I hissed. I was sweating in the black silk dress and the journal in my waistband was digging into my skin. I finally saw a set of double doors that were slightly open. I pushed through them and I stopped.

The room was huge. The table in the center was so long it looked like a literal runway for a private jet...Darian was already at the far end. He looked like a king waiting for a peasant to come beg for mercy...

I didn't want to sit near him. I didn't even want to be in the same zip code as him. I marched to the very opposite end of the table and pulled out the chair. It made a loud, ugly screech on the marble.

Darian didn't even look up from his wine. "You're late," he said. His voice carried across the table like a cold breeze.

"I got lost," I snapped, sitting down. "Maybe if you had a house that made sense instead of a museum for your ego, I'd be on time."

He finally looked at me. His eyes moved from my face down to the dress. The black silk was tight and the neckline was low. I saw his jaw tighten. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something, but he just gripped his wine glass harder.

He's acting like a tough guy again, I thought. Mr. Cold and Ruthless CEO. What a load of shit. I looked at the distance between us. It was ridiculous. I could barely see the color of his eyes.

"Is this how you eat every night?" I called out. I had to raise my voice just so he could hear me. "Sitting thirty feet away from everyone so you can feel important?"

Darian set his glass down with a sharp clink. "It's called privacy, Liora. Something you wouldn't understand coming from a basement apartment."

"Oh, go to hell," I muttered.

A servant came out and placed a plate of something fancy in front of me. I didn't even look at it. I was busy watching Darian. I remembered how his breath felt on my neck in the bedroom...I remembered the way his hand shook for a split second when he zipped my dress.

I'm going to mess with him. I'm going to make him break.

I reached for my wine and took a slow sip, keeping my eyes locked on his. I saw him track the movement of my throat as I swallowed. I leaned forward, putting my elbows right on the table.

"You know," I said, my voice dropping into a lower, huskier tone. "This table is really long. It's such a waste of space. Don't you think?"

Darian's eyes narrowed. "Eat your dinner, Liora."

"I'm not hungry for food," I said. I let my hand slide slowly down the stem of the glass. I moved my leg under the table, shifting the silk so it rustled. "I'm hungry for something else. I'm wondering why you're sitting all the way over there. Are you scared of me, Mr. Volkov? Are you scared that if you sit too close, you won't be able to stop yourself from touching me again?"

Darian let out a harsh, dry laugh. "You have a very high opinion of yourself. You are a contract, Liora. Nothing more."

"Then why are you staring at my chest?"

He froze. His eyes flicked up to mine, and for the first time, I saw a flash of genuine anger. Not the cold kind...the hot kind.

"I am not staring," he lied.

"You are," I said, smiling. I stood up slowly. The chair scraped again. I didn't stay at my end. I started to walk. I walked along the side of that thirty-foot table, my heels clicking a rhythm that felt like a countdown.

Click. Click. Click.

Darian watched me. He didn't move a muscle, but I could see his chest rising and falling faster. I got closer. Ten feet. Five feet. I stopped right next to his chair. The smell of him...expensive wood and something dark,hit me like a wave.

"Sit down, Liora," he warned. His voice was a low growl.

"No," I whispered. I leaned over him. I let my hair fall over my shoulder, brushing against his suit jacket. I reached out and I didn't touch his hand. I touched his tie. I ran my finger down the silk, stopping right at the center of his chest.

I could feel his heart. It was thumping like a drum. 

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"You're a liar, Darian," I murmured. I leaned closer until my lips were an inch from his ear. "You don't want an heir. You want me. And it's eating you alive that you had to pay for it."

Darian's hand shot out. He didn't grab my waist this time. He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and burning. He pulled me toward him until I was leaning over his lap.

"You think you're winning?" he hissed. His eyes were dark, almost black. "You think you can play with me like some boy in a bar? You have no idea who I am, Liora. You have no idea what I'm capable of."

"Then show me," I challenged. I didn't pull away. I leaned even closer, my breath hitting his lips. "Stop talking about contracts and show me what's behind the ice."

I saw his gaze drop to my mouth. He was shaking. His mask was gone. He was a man on the edge of a cliff, and I was the one pushing him.

I reached my free hand up and I let my fingers graze the back of his neck, right at the hairline. I felt him shiver. A real, violent shiver that went through his whole body.

"Is the wine to your liking, Mr. Volkov?" I whispered, using his own words against him. "Or do you want to taste something better?"

Darian made a sound deep in his throat...a jagged, broken groan. He didn't answer. He just stared at me, his fingers digging into my wrist, caught between wanting to throw me out of the room and wanting to tear the dress off my back.

I had done it. 

Payback is a bitch, Darian.

The servant appeared looking confused. He was holding my plate of expensive, overpriced sea bass. He looked at the far end of the table, then at me, then at Darian.

"Move it," I said, my voice sharp. "I'm eating here."

The servant scrambled, scurrying to place the dish in front of me before disappearing as fast as he could. He probably didn't want to be in the room if something happened.

I picked up my fork and took a bite. It was delicious, but I didn't care. I was too busy feeling the heat radiating off the man next to me.

Darian finally turned his head but he didn't look at my face. He looked at the way I was holding my silverware. He looked at the way I chewed. He was observing me like I was a bug under a microscope, his eyes tracking every single movement of my hands.

Oh, so we're playing the observation game now?

I see you

I knew what he was doing. He was looking for a flaw, He was looking for the waitress or the poor girl so he could feel superior again. I decided to give him a show. I cut a piece of fish with slow, exaggerated precision. I lifted it to my mouth, my lips lingering on the tines of the fork for a second longer than necessary.

I felt his gaze burn into the side of my face.

He's spiraling, I thought. Good.

"Is something wrong with my technique, Mr. Volkov?" I asked, my voice as smooth as the wine. "Or are you just surprised I know which fork to use?"

"You're making a mess," he muttered. His voice was rough, like he'd been swallowing sand.

"A mess?" I laughed, a low, throaty sound. "I think the only mess in this room is inside your head, Darian. You can't decide if you want to fire me or pin me against this table."

Darian slammed his hand down on the mahogany. "Enough. You think you're so damn clever because you can provoke a reaction. You're a child."

"Then why are you still sitting here?" I countered.

I didn't wait for an answer. I let my left hand drop beneath the table. The move was bold,It was stupid,It was dangerous.

I rested my palm right on his thigh.

The muscle beneath his expensive suit trousers was like granite. I felt him jump..a sharp, violent flinch,but he didn't pull away. I let my fingers spread, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric and into my palm. I could feel the power in his leg, the raw, suppressed energy of a man who spent his life holding everything back.

The tension in the air didn't just rise; it literally snapped. It felt like the room was suddenly ten degrees hotter.

"Liora," he warned, his voice a low, vibrating threat. "Take your hand off me."

"Make me," I whispered. I didn't move my hand. I squeezed, my nails digging slightly into the hard muscle of his leg. I leaned closer to him, my shoulder rubbing against his. "You're always talking about what you own. You own the house. You own the contract. But right now? Your heart is beating so hard I can practically see it through your shirt. Who's in control now, Darian?"

He turned to me, his face inches from mine. His eyes were wild. The ice was gone, replaced by a dark, hungry fire that made my stomach do a slow, sick flip.

"You want to know who's in control?" he hissed. He reached out, his hand moving so fast I couldn't recoil. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. "You think a little skin and a few words make you the master here? You're a guest in my cage, Liora. And I'm the only thing keeping the wolves outside from tearing you apart."

"Maybe I like the wolves," I bit back, my breath hitching as his thumb brushed against my lower lip.

"Don't lie," he whispered. "You're terrified. And you should be."

He didn't let go. He stared at my mouth, his gaze heavy and desperate. For a second, I thought he was going to lean in and end the game right there. I wanted him to. I wanted to see if the Ice King tasted like fire.

The silence between us was heavy, filled with the sound of our ragged breathing and the ticking of a clock somewhere in the hall. It was messy. It was petty. It was exactly what I wanted.

I had upset his world. I had crawled under his skin and made a home there.

"You're a prick, Darian Volkov," I murmured, my hand still firm on his thigh.

"And you're a brat," he replied, his voice dropping to a rasp. "An infuriating brat."

He let go of my chin, but he didn't move away. We sat there, side by side at the head of a thirty-foot table, two enemies sharing a dinner that felt more like a war.

I took another sip of my wine, my hand still resting on his leg. I had achieved my goal. The mask was finally slipping.