I couldn’t concentrate.

Three hours I’d been sitting at my kitchen table, case files spread across the surface like tarot cards predicting disaster, and all I could think about was the way Kane had said my name. Like it hurt him. Like it was something precious he wasn’t allowed to have.

Be careful.

The memory of his desperate plea sent heat spiraling through my core for the hundredth time today. I shifted in my chair, pressing my thighs together against the persistent ache that hadn’t left me since walking out of that courthouse.

This was insane. I was a professional woman, not some lovesick teenager obsessing over her first crush. Kane Drax was my client—a criminal accused of sexual assault—and I was supposed to be preparing his defense, not fantasizing about his hands on my body.

But God, the way he’d looked at me. Like I was salvation and damnation wrapped in a conservative suit.

I forced myself to focus on Victoria’s statement, reading through her accusations with growing skepticism. Her timeline didn’t match the witness reports. She claimed Kane had followed her to a private room around midnight, but the bartender’s statement put him at his table until at least 12:30, surrounded by his crew.

Someone was lying, and it wasn’t hard to guess who.

My phone buzzed with a text from Sofia: How’s the mysterious client? Still thinking about Mr. Tall, Dark & Dangerous?with a smirking devil face

If only she knew.

I’d been thinking about Kane since the moment I’d left that interview room. Thinking about the electricity that had shot between us when I’d touched the door. The way his voice had roughened when he’d warned me away. The desperate hunger I’d glimpsed before he’d shuttered his expression.

What would have happened if I’d walked back to his corner that night?

The thought was dangerous. Intoxicating.

My hand drifted to my throat as if pulled by an invisible thread, imagining Kane’s fingers there instead—strong, unyielding, commanding. Would he have been gentle, coaxing? Or would he have claimed me with the same ruthless dominance I’d watched him unleash on the brunette?

Heat coiled low in my belly, spreading molten and relentless until it pooled between my thighs. The memory looped through my head: Kane’s hands gripping her waist, guiding her every movement while she writhed against him like her sanity depended on it. And that sound he’d made—that guttural growl, not quite human—when she kissed him with tongue and teeth like she wanted to devour him whole.

I wanted to make him sound like that.

The realization hit like lightning, sharp and impossible to ignore. My body moved before my mind could stop it. My hand slid beneath the waistband of my yoga pants, finding the slick heat of my own need already waiting for me.

Kane.

Just his name in my head was enough to make my pulse stutter. I pictured his voice saying mine, rough and low, whispering Calla like a command only I could obey. My fingers brushed against my slick folds, circling with the same rhythm I’d watched that brunette grind out against his lap.

But in my fantasy, it wasn’t my hand. It was his. His rough, calloused fingers—stronger, firmer, far less forgiving—working me with practiced precision. He’d know every place to touch, every spot to press, every way to drag out the pleading he craved.

“Please,” I gasped into the silence of my apartment, my other hand gripping the table edge so hard my knuckles ached.

In my mind, Kane’s mouth was at my throat, hot breath trailing fire down to my chest. His teeth grazing, his lips claiming. His hand holding me open while his fingers drove me higher, deeper, faster. He wouldn’t stop until I was undone, until I shattered against him. He’d want it all. Demand it all. And I’d give it, because he would leave me no choice.

You’re mine, Calla. Say it.

The phantom command vibrated through me, as real as if his lips brushed my ear. My body clenched around my own fingers like he was really there, pulling the sounds from me that I swore I’d never make.

Say you’re mine.

“I’m yours,” I cried out, the words torn from my throat as release ripped through me. My back arched, my body convulsing with wave after relentless wave of pleasure. His name spilled from my lips like a prayer, like a curse, like the only truth that had ever mattered.

And when the last shudder passed, I collapsed against the chair, breathless, trembling, every nerve still singing with the echo of him. Kane wasn’t here. But God, it felt like he had been.

For a moment, I floated in that post-orgasmic haze where nothing mattered except the satisfaction thrumming through my veins.

Then reality crashed back.

I was sitting in my kitchen, hand still buried in my pants, having just masturbated to fantasies of my client. My criminal client. The man accused of sexual assault who I was supposed to be defending with professional objectivity.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, yanking my hand away like I’d been burned.

What was wrong with me? I’d built my career on logic, on evidence, on maintaining appropriate boundaries. I didn’t lose control. I didn’t let emotion cloud my judgment. And I certainly didn’t get off thinking about dangerous men who warned me away for my own good.

But the evidence was literally on my fingers, and the satisfied ache between my legs made it impossible to pretend this was just professional curiosity.

I was in trouble. Deep, dangerous trouble that had nothing to do with Kane’s legal case and everything to do with the way he made me feel like a woman instead of just a lawyer.

My phone rang, shattering the guilty silence.

Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but years of legal training had taught me that important calls often came from unexpected sources.

“Calla Reyes.”

“Ms. Reyes.” The voice was cultured, refined, with the kind of old-money accent that spoke of boarding schools and trust funds. “I believe you’re representing Kane Drax.”

Ice formed in my veins despite the lingering heat in my body. “Who is this?”

“A concerned citizen with advice for a promising young attorney.” The man’s tone was conversational, but there was steel beneath the silk. “Mr. Drax is a dangerous man with dangerous enemies. It would be… unfortunate if an ambitious lawyer found herself caught in the crossfire.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s practical advice. Drop the case, Ms. Reyes. There are other clients, other opportunities. Ones that won’t end with you following in your mother’s footsteps.”

The mention of my mother hit like a physical blow. “What do you know about my mother?”

“I know Elena Reyes thought she was untouchable too. Right up until she wasn’t.” The man’s chuckle was soft, almost gentle. “Car accidents happen so easily in this city. Especially to lawyers who don’t know when to stop digging.”

The line went dead.

I sat there staring at my phone, my earlier satisfaction replaced by something cold and sharp. Someone was watching me. Threatening me. Using my mother’s memory as a weapon.

They’d made a mistake.

My hands shook as I gathered the scattered case files, but it wasn’t fear making them tremble. It was rage. Pure, clean fury at whoever thought they could intimidate me into abandoning a client.

They didn’t know me very well.

I’d built my career on impossible cases, on fighting for people the system wanted to forget. I wasn’t about to start backing down now, especially not for some anonymous coward who hid behind veiled threats.

But as I locked my apartment door and checked the windows twice before bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.

Whatever this case really was, it was bigger than Victoria’s wounded pride. Bigger than Kane’s criminal record.

And somehow, it was connected to secrets that had gotten my mother killed.

I didn’t sleep.

Every creak of the building, every car passing outside my window, every shadow that moved wrong had me reaching for my phone to call… who? The police? And tell them what—that someone had made vague threats about car accidents?

By morning, exhaustion and fury had crystallized into something sharp and unbreakable. Someone thought they could scare me off with anonymous phone calls and veiled references to my mother’s death. They were about to learn exactly how wrong they were.

I dressed for battle—my sharpest suit, heels that could double as weapons, hair pulled back in a bun tight enough to give me a headache. If Kane Drax thought he could keep playing games while someone threatened me, he was about to get a reality check.

The courthouse felt different today. More eyes tracking my movement, more whispered conversations that stopped when I passed. Paranoia, maybe, but after last night’s call, I wasn’t taking any chances.

Kane was already waiting when I entered the interview room, and the sight of him made my carefully constructed armor waver. He looked exhausted too, dark circles under his eyes like he’d spent the night pacing his cell. When those hazel-gold eyes met mine, something electric sparked between us—the same impossible connection that had been burning me alive for days.

“You look like hell,” he said by way of greeting.

“Funny. I was about to say the same about you.” I set my briefcase down harder than necessary, the sharp sound echoing off concrete walls. “We need to talk.”

Kane’s posture shifted, subtle but unmistakable. From casual to alert in the span of a heartbeat. “About the case?”

“About the phone call I received last night.”

The change in Kane was immediate and terrifying. His entire body went rigid, hands clenching into fists on the metal table. For a moment, his eyes flashed with something that wasn’t quite human—too bright, too predatory.

“What phone call?”

I pulled out my notepad, reading from the notes I’d made immediately after hanging up. “Unknown number, refined voice, mentioned my mother by name. Suggested I might follow in her footsteps if I didn’t drop your case.”

Kane’s face had gone absolutely white beneath his tan. “Son of a bitch.”

“So you know who it was.”

“I know the type.” Kane stood abruptly, beginning to pace the small room like a caged animal. “This is exactly what I was trying to prevent. This is why I told you to walk away.”

“Well, I didn’t walk away, and now someone’s threatening me.” I kept my voice level despite the fear and anger churning in my gut. “So you’re going to tell me exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.”

Kane stopped pacing, his back to me. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed like he wanted to hit something.

“You want the truth?” His voice was rough, dangerous. “Fine. But you’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

Kane turned, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. Raw, desperate, like he was about to confess to sins that would damn us both.

“The Iron Fang isn’t just a motorcycle club. We run high-stakes street races—illegal, underground, big money. Real big money.”

My legal mind immediately started cataloging the implications. “How big?”

“Big enough that politicians look the other way, cops get paid to patrol other neighborhoods on race nights, and the city’s elite place bets they can’t afford to lose.”

I scribbled notes, but part of me was focused on Kane himself—the way he moved when he was agitated, the barely leashed power in every gesture. Even discussing something that could destroy him, he commanded the room.

“And Victoria?”

Kane’s jaw tightened. “Victoria’s daddy has gambling debts. The kind that get people killed if they’re not paid. She thought if she could control me, she could control the races. Fix outcomes, guarantee wins.”

“And when you refused?”

“She decided to destroy me instead.” Kane’s smile was sharp as broken glass. “If she can’t have the races, she’ll make sure nobody can.”

The pieces were falling into place with sickening clarity. This wasn’t just about a spoiled princess’s wounded ego. This was about money, power, and control of something worth killing for.

“Who else is involved in these races?”

Kane’s hesitation was telling. “There are… other clubs. Rival organizations who’d love to see Iron Fang eliminated.”

“Names, Kane.”

“The Blood Fangs.” Kane’s voice dropped to something almost like a growl. “Led by Marcus Blackthorn. We’ve got history—bad history. He’s been trying to muscle in on our territory for years.”

Marcus Blackthorn. I made a note to research him, though something about the name sent an inexplicable chill down my spine.

“You think he’s behind the threats?”

“Marcus doesn’t make phone calls. He makes bodies disappear.” Kane moved closer, and I caught that intoxicating scent that made my mouth water despite everything. “But he’s got connections, people who do his dirty work from the shadows.”

“Then we go to the FBI—”

“With what evidence?” Kane leaned over the table, his face inches from mine. “You think the feds are going to care about some biker’s word against a senator’s daughter? About illegal races half the city government profits from?”

He was right, and we both knew it. But having him this close was scrambling my thoughts, making it hard to focus on anything except the way his lips moved when he spoke.

“So what do you suggest?” I managed.

“I suggest you do what I told you from the beginning.” Kane’s voice was soft, but there was steel beneath the silk. “Walk away. Let them assign you another lawyer and forget you ever met me.”

“No.”

The word came out stronger than I felt. Kane’s eyes flashed with something between admiration and desperation.

“Calla—”

“No,” I repeated, standing so we were eye to eye across the narrow table. “I don’t back down from fights, Kane. Especially not when someone threatens me with my mother’s memory.”

Something broke in Kane’s expression. For a moment, his careful control slipped, and I saw raw hunger flash across his features before he shuttered it again.

“You don’t understand what you’re up against.”

“Then help me understand.” I leaned forward, matching his intensity. “Stop trying to protect me and start trusting me to do my job.”

Kane stared at me for a long moment, and I could see him fighting some internal battle. Finally, he reached across the table, his fingers stopping just short of touching mine.

“If you get hurt because of me,” he said quietly, “I’ll never forgive myself.”

The confession hung between us like a live wire. This close, I could see gold flecks in his hazel eyes, could count the individual scars mapping his knuckles. The air felt charged, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I whispered.

Kane’s breath hitched. “You should be.”

“Why?” I challenged, my voice barely audible. “What are you hiding, Kane?”

For a heartbeat, I thought he might tell me everything. His lips parted, his eyes dark with secrets and want. Then footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, and the moment shattered.

Kane jerked back like I’d burned him, putting distance between us just as the guard appeared in the doorway.

“Time’s up,” the officer announced.

I gathered my things on unsteady legs, hyperaware of Kane’s gaze tracking my every movement. When I reached the door, his voice stopped me.

“Calla.”

I turned, and the intensity in his expression made my knees weak.

“Be careful going home tonight. Vary your route. And if anyone approaches you—anyone at all—you run. Do you understand me?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Kane’s eyes closed like I’d hurt him. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

When he looked at me again, his gaze burned with something that made my core clench with need.

“For what I’m about to do to you.”

What was he about to do to me? Before I could ask what he meant, the guard was escorting me out, leaving Kane alone with his cryptic warning and the electricity still crackling between us.