💞 special Valentine's update 💗

"Ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," A flutter of excitement courses through me as I like my arm with Prince's as we are led through a secret entrance of a nondescript building.

If I hadn't my heart already set on one man, tonight would have been a perfect date.

Emilian is fun. He and I have a lot in common. Both of us have had tight upbringings with a sense of responsibility looming over our heads since before we were even born. We share a great rapport. Both of us share equal love for junk food and dream of owning our own restaurants someday.

He hasn't bored me a bit. I felt no need to rush back home. There's also the fact that it became easier to enjoy Emilian's company once I confessed to him that I am unavailable and he took it sportingly.

Prince Emilian and I are both part of Obsidian Syndicate.

It's a secret society of Yale.

Membership to this society is an exclusive privilege. It's bestowed on a handpicked few in our first years, mostly to the ones who have generational connections with members, in a tradition that dates back to the 1700s. This is a part of our legacy.

I have never really stepped a foot in here but tonight's the annual meet and Emilian convinced me to. In front of a majestic goth-style door, we both pull out our phones.

As secret members, we have a unique digital key which grants us exclusive access to the world behind the doors. We do the encrypted code scan and retina scan following which we hear a soft click of the door opening. This kind of next level of security adds an element of mystique to the Obsidian Syndicate.

"This feels so James Bond-esque," I grin. "How often do you come here?"

"I'm a whale. So I'd say two-three times a month," he winks, leading me through the door. "Remember, cameras are not allowed," he reminds me.

"Yep. Capturing any evidence of the existence of this world is strictly forbidden. I know." I nod, remembering one of the oaths I'd taken while being initiated to it a decade ago.

As we step in, the shift in the atmosphere is so electric and all-encompassing. It's like this is a whole different realm.

The vintage Victorian Gothic-style interior transports me to the world that appears like a clandestine piece of history. The dim lighting is casting an otherworldly radiance on the antique furnishings, people inside, victorian chandeliers, creating an ambiance of enigmatic luxury.

The air is thick with a subtle undertone of aged wood, expensive champagnes being spilled around, the scent of luxurious perfumes. The chatter and laughter of secret members, all elite, mingling with the music playing in the background. The place is a hive of activity.

Burlesque performers are occupying the stage on our left. They're adorned in beautiful, risque, and lavish Moulin-Rouge-style customers as they captivate the audience with their seductive moves. Stunning and almost naked bottle girls are gliding through the crowd with trays in their hands carrying large, golden, sparkler-adorned champagne bottles.

We grab champagne from them and walk through the dark corridor in the center that leads us to the area reserved for another stage that's dedicated to pole performances.

There are sleek, polished poles on the stage where beautiful pole dancers are twisting and turning their bodies, drawing applause and loud gasps from the crowd surrounding them.

"They're all one of us. Not pole performers," Emilian leans in to whisper in my ear.

"Really? Could I join them?"

"You know pole dancing?" His eyebrow cocks up in surprise.

"I don't kiss and tell," I grin.

"Well, good for me. We haven't kissed so maybe you can tell?" He laughs.

"Yeah, I know pole dancing," I flick my hair. "If you must know, I'm a very talented pole dancer. I'd be making money hand over fist as a stripper-slash-pole dancer if I weren't who I am."

"I'd be honored if you'd grace us mere mortals with a performance."

"We'll see if you're lucky enough to be graced," I smirk, dragging him along with me to our right.

We weave through a massive crowd through the dark corridor and come across a live auction going on the stage.

"It's the highlight of the evening." Emilian notes with his eyes on the stage.

An auctioneer is at the center, presenting a lineup of beautiful and exotic-looking men and women, each available for the highest bidder.

"Are they one of us too?" I ask, intrigued.

"Hell nah. We are the ones who bid on them," he whistles as a patron bids $2 million for a woman labeled 'Number 08' in a golden dress.

I watch powerful oligarchs, Arabs, world leaders, and the upper echelons of the top 1%-all Yalies, of course shedding their public facade of decency for an evening of unrestrained indulgence.

No rule of the outside world applies within these gothic walls.

The prince and I are absorbed in a discussion about a sensual pole performance of the woman I recognize as one of my seniors, and I'm on my fourth glass of champagne when I'm startled by a familiar voice from behind.

"Juliette Rothschild in our humble abode as I live and breathe."

I turn to see August.

All tall, broad shouldered, and handsome as hell immaculately attired in a dark suit. He's the very definition of royal charm. His incisive gray eyes glint with a mix of amusement and surprise.

"This is a surprise! I did not expect to see you here," he smirks, reaching out to hug me.

"And yet, here I am," I smile in his hug and his gaze flickers to my date. "August, meet Prince Emilian of Luxembourg and Emilian, this is Prince August of Caravaggio."

"We know each other," they speak in unison, shaking their hands making me roll my eyes.

"Everything alright?" August asks with genuine concern lingering heavily into his words as Emilian moves to greet some acquaintance of his.

"Yeah," I murmur with a wry smile that's an acknowledgement of my tipsy state "Why wouldn't it be?"

He studies me for a moment. "Well, I am glad. Are you on a date?"

"Yeah."

"Does Res know you're here?"

"Is he my parole officer?"

A ghost smile plays on his lips. "Want to join me at my table? There's some real fun going on over there."

I chuckle. "So you can babysit me on the behalf of your brother?"

"Maybe?" He challenges me to deny his offer.

Right now, he looks exactly like his brother. It's eerie. The resemblance uncanny.

"No thanks. Enjoy your evening, August," I say, walking away from him to join my date.

Sometime later, once I can feel the champagne making my head fuzzy, I lean closer to Emilian. "I'm in a mood to grace you with an honor to watch me perform on the pole."

"Yeah?" His eyes brighten.

"Yeah." I nod, slipping away from him.

I'm offered a venetian mask by a staff member. All the performers have the option to wear one so they can be anonymous to the rest of the crowd and perform without inhibition. It's designed intricately to promise a sense of anonymity.

"Do I look like someone who has reservations?" I chuckle, climbing on the stage with the glass of champagne in my hand.

I am brimming with confidence which I am certain is all the liquid courage.

The music, a sensuous pulsating beat, weaving through the air is spreading all over my senses. Because I'm the only performer right now, without a mask, and a face I bet every single one here recognizes, all the eyes draw to me.

Sipping the champagne, I take small, sultry steps to the pole at the center in the dimly lit room.

The crowd in anticipation of my performance draws closer. It only boosts my spirits and raw courage.

I am met with a huge applause of cheers and claps. I throw the close in the direction, so many jump to catch it.

Adrenaline surges through me. Every nerve in my body alights with exhilaration and thrill.

I reach out to the cool and unyielding steel pole and begin with a series of fluid movements around it. My body sways in perfect sync with the sultry music.

As the crowd's roaring applause grows, I launch into daring maneuvers.

In my mind the pole is Areston and I'm imagining wrapping myself around him. I am practically making love to the pole. I make an inverted V, gripping the pole with my thighs, hanging my body upside down.

The crowd's uncontainable energy and wild excitement feeds me. Feeling emboldened with the kind of reaction I'm getting, I extend my legs outwards, transitioning into a butterfly spin, creating a stunning silhouette against the lights.

As I spin, the centrifugal force keeps me in place. My hair fans out like a halo. Wrapping my one leg around the pole and extending the other in a perfect vertical line, I execute a jade split before performing a perfect handspring, firing my body into the air.

I stay suspended before sliding down smoothly, drawing cheers and gasps. I split my leg wide before lifting myself up with a fluid ease, and spin my body, arching it and curling it around the pole.

The reserved and composed Juliette Rothschild the world knows has left the building. I am just Juliette. Unhinged.

Daring. I spin my body sensuously along the pole with a grace that comes from years of practice.

There's a rain of cash all over me from all directions. So much cash. It wasn't before even though they were far better performers than me. It adds more to my ego.

I can barely recognize myself right now. I'm thoroughly enjoying this uninhibited stripped version of myself.

The applause grows thunderous as I perform a split before pulling myself up, twisting my body, and extending my arms to create an illusion of wings opening, and climb up to tilt my body upside-down while hanging at the top of the pole.

I slowly descend as the song reaches its conclusion, my final move is a graceful spiral. The crowd bursts into the loudest uproar yet and I take my strides to the edge of the stage for a bow.

But then, as I lean forward to bow, I freeze.

Standing out in his casual attire, the same I saw him in earlier when I had an argument with him, amidst the sea of black tuxedos, is Areston.

Right in front of my face.

Barely an arm's length away.

He's the only person who can enter this private sanctum without membership.

Areston De L'Aquila is the only one who can bypass the secret society's stringent rules.

Not even the US president can waltz in here. His presence is a testament to who he is and the kind of leverage he has over the world.

He looks taller, more lethal, and darker than ever.

His arctic gaze gleams with danger.

The rain of cash, applause, crowd, endorphins, and everything fades into the background as my eyes lock with his.

Breath stalls in my lungs.

Desire slams into me. Thick and dark. It's not supposed to.

There's a tumult of emotions in his eyes as he stands with his arms crossed, surveying me. Rage, disbelief, desire, and perhaps a hint of praise if I am not wrong.

My heart, racing heavily from the bold and racy performance, starts beating with a different sort of adrenaline.

A sort that's mixed with a heady sense of thrill and peril.

I anticipated this.

I anticipated August's fierce loyalty towards his brother.

I anticipated Mr. Testosterone-On-Legs dropping everything and charging in here with his formidable presence.

The potent liquid courage in me and the rush of good hormones from the performance causes me to smile languorously at him in a challenge while I'm still in bowing position.

The tip of my tongue slides out to moisten my full lower lip followed by my teeth tugging it between it.

Not deliberately.

Though it serves its purpose.

His pupils dilate and before his attention drops to my mouth and lingers there.

A sharp surge of awareness and wild excitement flares into me. "Did my performance cause you another boner?"

He groans something in Italian and grabs my neck from front with his long-fingered hand, his eyes pinning me with his as he hauls me close by the singular force on my throat.

I stumble on my knees. It hurts a little but I don't care. My eyes remain fixed on him.

"Merely you existing does," he gives me a look of biting scorn, raising his other hand to cup my chin.

His touch feels so good against my skin, unyielding and cool.

He brushes the pad of his thumb over my moistened lower lip, his grip on my neck tightening.

I gasp, letting my thumb part for him.

I wantonly stick my tongue out to let the tip of it stroke his thumb, my eyes challenging him to stop the public display.

He doesn't.

"You're the exquisite poison in my veins I've willingly embraced," he plants his mouth roughly over mine, kissing me like a possessed man, setting me on fire.

I taste whiskey in his mouth and his own heady taste that further intoxicates me. I run my hands along his arms and up to the nape of his neck as I give into the maddening force of the kiss. I slide my fingers into his thick silky mane, clutching them against his scalp.

His fingers choking my neck don't leave.

They only curl deeper, causing me to open my mouth, giving his expert tongue access into it. I shiver violently against him. He takes full control of my senses, each movement of his mouth against mine, his tongue dueling with mine, setting off a whirlpool of sensations inside me, leaving me into a puddle.

His breathing is as fractured as mine, he's as aching for me as I'm for him when he parts.

"Party's over," he husks dangerously, his expression switching to unreadable and more formidable.

Before I can even understand or react, in one swift, startling motion, his hands slide down to my waist and in a quiet, unyielding display of his supreme control, he hoists me over his shoulder.

Senses come rushing back to me as I watch everything upside down. "Ares, stop! What are you doing?" I beat his back with my fists.

"Showing them who you belong to," he growls, carrying me out with purposeful strides amidst the chaos of whispers and gasps.

His shoulder is pressing hard against my belly. The grip of his hand is firm on my legs.

"You're ruining my reputation, you brute! I'm not one of the auction girls to be treated this way!"

"They don't care. This is the kind of shit secret clubs are for. What happens inside stays inside."

"I care!"

"The kind of performance you've given them you're lucky it's not one of them carrying you off the stage," he snaps.

The moment we exit the building that secretly houses the Obsidian Syndicate's headquarter, the cool, night air of Manhattan caresses the bare parts of my skin.

Areston paces towards the La Voiture Noire he has parked right in front of the gate in the quiet street unlike rest of the valet parked cars. Four suburbans are parked right behind it. His unmissable security detail.

Oh, god. What would they think of me?

"Areston, put me down! You're embarrassing me."

He doesn't respond.

He's fuming.

I can feel it in the way he's charging ahead.

He opens the door to the passenger side of the seat, unceremoniously dumping me into it.

The suddenness of it is rendering me breathless. My heart is racing wildly.

He puts me in the seatbelt and slams the door shut loudly with conclusiveness that echoes in the quiet street. I can hear blood pounding in my ears.

Disheveled and bewildered, I straighten myself as I watch him, his movements controlled, as he pads around to the driver's side.

There's a controlled energy I can sense in him even through this distance that's both captivating and arousing.

The air charges with a million unspoken words as he climbs into the car. The tension is so tangible. The leather of the seat is cool against my skin. The atmosphere between us is anything but.

I steal a glance at his intimidating profile– razor-sharp, resolute, vibrating with a tsunami of emotions even though his expressions remain poker-faced.

He's a statue of restrained rage as fires up the engine, bringing the car roaring to life. It mirrors the turbulence brewing within him. His knuckles turn white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. He remains quiet as he drives, his jaw clenching so taut I can almost hear it.

The silence between us is almost deafening, accentuated only by the sexy low hum of the powerful engine as he navigates through the silent streets.

I have this sharp urge to reach out to touch him, to caress the creases of the frown.

But I don't.

I remain frozen in my seat, worried that anything I might do might only unleash the monster he's restraining so hard from burning his polished facade.

I turn to the window, feeling small and insignificant next to the massive magnitude of his quiet rage. The weight of it is suffocating and relentless.

I am tempted to fill the overwhelming silence, yet I can't seem to find the words.

How can I dare to calm the violent ocean with mere words?

The sports car is speeding, I can barely see anything outside clearly. Everything keeps fading into strokes of color.

My heart is racing with every acceleration and turn. It's amplifying the fierce anxiety clawing at my heart.

"Christ, Belle. Were you on a date?" He slams the surface of the steering wheel hard, speaking in a scornful voice.

"Yes."

He tilts his face in my direction, his eyes darkening with blinding fury. "To do what? Evaluate your fucking options?"

I try not to visibly wince at his tone. "I told him I was taken and that friendship is all I can offer." I don't know why I had to explain myself. He deserves to rot in jealousy for his behavior.

He runs his fingers exaggeratingly through his hair while looking ahead. "Friendship got him a pole dance. What would beyond friendship would've gotten him?"

God, I feel so annoyed. Why am I even arguing with him when he deserves my silent treatment for manhandling me in a public place?

"Perhaps sex," I retort.

It pushes him over the edge. He pulls over to the side of the street.

"You've torched both my sanity and my will, Rothschild," he seethes, sliding his fingers to clutch my nape and dragging me close to him to claim my mouth with a raw compelling hunger and urgency, it leaves me dizzy.

It's impossible not to lean into it and melt. My one hand caresses his shoulder blade, all hard rippling muscles and other lowers to rest at the base of his spine.

I part my lips eagerly as the pressure of his lips increases, his arms binding me to him, pressing my upper half to his in a way I'm almost out of my seat.

A pulse throbs hard between my legs as I caress his tongue with mine, kissing him like he's the oasis I've found following weeks without water in the Sahara.

A soft noise rolls in my throat in a response to his own deep hum.

My fingertips stroke his spine while his own gently massages my hair. I press myself closer to him as if I can't get enough. He's all pure heat, consuming, intoxicating, and hard muscle and I can't help but want more until sanity returns to me.

"No." I pull away from him breathlessly. "You can't kiss me whenever you feel like without my consent."

He sneers, "I'll kiss whenever I feel like and if that's how you return an unconsented kiss then I don't want your consent, tesoro."

"Don't call me that," I snap, looking away, feeling frustrated at myself.

"You are my treasure," he retaliates, pulling the car on the road again. "Christ, Belle. To think of all those men lusting over your raunchy dance. What were you thinking?"

"I was enjoying myself."

"And does your mother approve of it?"

"Now you want me to care about her approval?"

"What were you planning on doing had I not arrived on time? Giving your new friend a lap dance, perhaps?"

I clamp my mouth shut as a smile threatens to curve on my face and continue to look out of the window. "Damn. I wish I'd thought of that earlier. I could've given him one. He'd have been so happy."

He exhales a frustrated sigh. "I should've never allowed you to leave in such a risque outfit."

This man makes me so mad. I cross my arms and turn to him. "Who the hell do you think you are to allow me?"

"Your future husband," he hisses with his eyes intact on the road.

I'm left frozen and breathless for a second as I process his words.

Did he really say that?

"You're not even my boyfriend yet," I somehow manage to utter defensively, inside I'm still shaken with all the butterflies causing chaos in my belly.

"I am everything you want me to be," he admits, his voice soft this time.

"My slave it is," I murmur and right then, my phone vibrates.

Hot dog cart. 5th Ave & E 82nd St

"We need to make a detour to 5th Ave & E 82nd St, please. It's urgent."

"Any other waiting prospects?" He fumes, throwing me a sharp glare.

"It's work," I scowl. "You can drop me there and leave."

"Good try," he returns his attention to the road.

The remaining drive is silent.

Ten minutes later, I climb out of his car and head to the hot dog stand. The aroma of grilling sausages is filling the air. I am not even hungry and it's still tempting me to eat one.

"What can I get for you?"

"I'm deciding. One moment, please," I say, pretending to look at the menu when my private investigator appears beside me.

"Classic with everything. Extra onions," he tells the vendor.

"What have you got for me?" I slide a cash envelope I've been carrying for this visit out of my purse and hand it over to him discreetly while the vendor prepares his order.

"Sarah's husband is knee-deep in trafficking of young girls," he whispers, pretending to read the magazine in his hand. My mind races as I process the information. A chill running down my spine. "I've managed to tap into all five phones he uses. The pen drive contains all the classified documents. Here," he slips the small pen drive into my hand as I continue to pretend to read the menu.

"Your hotdog," the vendor says.

"Ah. I just realized I don't feel hungry at all. Sorry," I force a smile.

He glowers at me in return.

As I turn to make my way towards a not-so-happy Mr. Testosterone-On-Legs in the La Voiture Noire, Ben leans in, keeping his voice a low whisper.

"There's a Russian woman. Ekaterina...she socializes in high society. There's not much mention of her in the documents, but whatever we have directs to the fact that she appears to be the linchpin. I'd go as far as to say she's the thread that connects us all."

I nod, "Keep looking. I'll see what I can do. Thank you."

"Is everything alright?" Areston asks, his voice surprisingly soft, as I climb back in the car.

"None of your concern."

"Everything related to you is my concern, Belle."

I put the pen drive securely in the inner chain of my purse. "We are not together."

"The hell we aren't," he grits, pulling into the traffic.

He's driving in silence when something comes to me. "He was an employee of mine. Just in case you were wondering. Not some prospect."

"I gathered that much," he broods. The bastard.

Why does he have to look so beautiful all the time? Doesn't matter if he's brooding.

Turning away from him, I cross my arms against my chest, and stare out. "I am feeling lost, Ares. You are crowding me physically and emotionally, making it difficult for me to think straight."

"I tried not to crowd you. It led you straight into pole dancing in a secret club with sleazy men and women in a titillating outfit."

"I hate this..." I sink deeper in the seat and push my head back, closing my eyes. "I hate that somehow you're making me feel like a criminal in all of this when I'm just trying to get on with my life."

"Your life is with me," he responds after a beat. "There's no getting on with it without me, Belle. Get that straight."

*****

"You should live in a place with a private elevator facility, Belle. That's the basic safety rule," Areston notes with a hint of heavy disapproval while we're in the elevator ascending to my floor.

"This building is highly secure. You should know. You own it."

He is accompanying me against my will. Arguing with him would be like trying to break Mount Rushmore by banging my head against it.

What's more I barely had any strength left in me to talk him out of it.

The aftermath of all the liquid courage that made me brave enough to climb on the stage to perform a pole dance and face him has finally dissolved.

There's no courage left in my system now. Only nerves and butterflies in my belly.

It doesn't help that he's holding my hand in his, his fingers gently stroking his fingertips down the sensitive flesh of my inner arm.

I am barely suppressing a shudder in response. There's no way I want him to see how pathetically vulnerable I am even to such small gestures of his.

"Besides, I like being able to be friends with my neighbors and chat with them occasionally on my way in or out. Growing up in the Rothschild Mansion was isolating and I didn't like it," I add, staring at our reflection on the polished steel surface of the door.

Even with my heels on, he's towering over me as usual. My protector and tormentor.

"Even your penthouse in Avenue Montaigne wasn't quite high on security. I did not approve, but of course, back then it was none of my business."

"What are you talking about?" I frown.

How does he know about the security of my Parisian residence?

His head turns, brilliant cerulean eyes rake my face. "My team could easily deliver stuff at your doorstep every year at 12 am on your birthday," he admits with an unusual honesty.

My heart swells and aches with an emotion I can't explain. A gasp escapes me before I can even contain it.

"The unknown sender of the peonies and MarieBelle chocolate was you?" I echo in shock.

Very slowly and carefully he releases his pent-up breath, his body taut as he lifts his shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "I couldn't help it. I missed you."

"You could've called me. Why didn't you?" My voice comes out a bare whisper.

"I wanted to believe I hated you," he admits, his voice tight.

"But you didn't." I say quietly, feeling my eyes prick with tears.

He turns us to face each other. Curling his free hand around the back of my head, he gently pulls me close enough so that I can feel his heated breath caressing my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

His burning gaze traps me. "I couldn't."

"Yet when we reconciled after all these years, you put me through hell and what for? To prove to yourself that you didn't need me."

Suddenly my body aches with exhaustion from the strain of the day and all the turmoil of feelings.

He simply nods in response, for once lost for words.

I force myself to smile. "And you want me to trust you not to hurt me again just to prove to yourself a point?"

He tilts my head back, roughly, his face clenching fiercely. He pulls away his hand twined with mine and captures my chin.

He lowers his mouth to brush against mine without kissing me, making me shudder in his hold. "Sì. Leap of faith. Trust me just as blindly as I am trusting you not to abandon me again, Belle. "

His words hit me like an ultimatum.

My breath comes out rattled.

It's clear he doesn't want me to fight him. I can't fight him. He won't let me. Not in this lifetime.

I remain rooted to the spot, engulfed by a deep, resonant silence, sensing every inch of the closeness and yet distance between us all at once.

My heart is a violent stuff in my chest, banging against my ribs as if desperate to escape the wild chaos that's going on inside me right now.

Our eyes, his chilly like a glacier while mine heavy with unshed tears, remain locked, searching and drowning in the same storm that's swirling inside both of us. His fierce grip in my hair and on my chin is unyielding, it's like he's gripping my soul instead.

Just then, the elevator pings in announcement to the arrival of my floor, the sound slicing through our thick tension like a blade.

I feel flooded by an overwhelming need to say something, yet I dare not. I do not trust myself at this moment for fear of breaking down.

I turn away from him, intending to escape the elevator and all its tension, but he tightens his hold on me, blocking me from moving away from him.

His hand on my chin lifts to press the stop button before it slides down to the base of my spine and presses me against him. "You know what happens when you try to run away, Belle."

The way his hard on straining pants pokes my stomach makes my senses only heighten more than before.

I become supremely conscious of everything about him. His innate raw masculinity, my subjugation to it, his control on my nerves, the heady scent of his skin penetrating deep into mine, and the dull ache this proximity is causing deep down in my body. I can feel his heart beating just as wildly as mine.

"Ares—"

His hand on the base of my spine presses me closer than we already, deliberately to make me grind against him.

"Belle," he says in a toe-curling husk, cutting me off by lowering his handsome dark head and claiming my lips with fierce determination that feels like he's staking his claim on me.

Heat flowers low in my stomach as his impatient mouth explores mine. I try to push him but his kiss and his hold on me grows only fiercer.

"Can't you see, tesoro? There's no escaping," he whispers, tugging my lower lip between his teeth. "Not anymore. We're each other's sustenance."

"That's the worst part," I sigh against his mouth, defeated, and put my arms around his neck. "It's making me feel more lost than I was before. It's like I'm stuck in a maze."

"Then let me draw you out of it, then. Let me be your guiding thread to pull you out of that maze. Just the way you'll be the guiding light to draw me out of the hell I'm trapped in. Please, Belle," his words are a desperate plea.

They've never hit me as sincere.

It's my undoing.

Giving up the fight I know I can't win, I kiss him back, needing him as much as I need my next breath.

I let him draw me closer so there's no space between us as his mouth makes love to mine with a ferociousness that possesses me. There's a yearning in it–aching, melting, irresistible, and tearing. I can't trust him not to break me again. Just as he can't trust me not to abandon him again.

It's not going to be easy. I'll have to tread every step carefully from here. But it's worth the risk. I have to do it for Juliette who'll never stop loving him and who'll never take a second to sacrifice herself for him.

A hunger, unmalleable and intense, seizes with a vicious force. A need to surrender while at the same time claiming him as mine as he once was arises in me so profoundly, it's irresistible.

My body trembles as I quell under the pressure of the intoxicating sensuality of his tongue exploring the depths of my mouth. A pulsating urgency arises in me a dull ache that mirrors the throbbing I can feel from Areston's potent arousal.

"I don't want us to rush into this... let's take this slow," I whisper against his mouth, breaking the kiss. "One step at a time but I want you to leave for now. I need a sane brain to be able to think around you. Right now I'm drunk."

His eyes harden. "Belle–"

"Don't fight me on this, Ares. Please. Give me this."

He exhales a sigh of exasperation as he presses his forehead against mine. "Go to the advocacy ball tomorrow with me. As my plus one."

My breath catches in my throat.

"I'm not prepared to go public," I say in horror. His eyebrows rise. I jump to correct myself hastily. "I mean... It's too early."

I expect him to scowl ferociously at me or display another act of brutish caveman way by torturing me in some pleasurable way and making me change both my statement and mind.

"That would be a problem because?" he questions instead, his voice dark and sinful.
His expressions have transformed back into impassiveness. I can't read him.

When can you ever? A voice in me snorts.

I lower my gaze, feeling flustered, my fingers on his back, drawing unknown patterns as I do so. "I don't want mama to get false ideas if she happens to be there or find out through people or paparazzi."

He gently puts a finger beneath my chin and forces me to look up. "The Rothschild Group and The De L'Aquila Group are both the biggest benefactors to the cause. We're also long term allies. It won't cause a stir if we are seen attending it together."

I chew my lower lip, contemplating if it's wise.
He tugs the lip being assaulted by my teeth out using his thumb and gently soothes the area with his thumb. It's a fight not to close my eyes.

"You have to stop thinking of us as a temporary thing, Belle," Anger flashes in his eyes, but his tone is smooth. Very smooth. It's deceptive. "I detest that you're waiting for all of this to end."

You have given me no reason to think otherwise. I add mentally.

"I don't want to rush into anything. Let's take it slow." I hug him, burying my face in his chest.

"Trust me, it's as slow as I can bear. You have no idea how miserable I'm without touching you. Let alone beginning my days and ending my nights without sinking into your body and driving us both to oblivion," he envelops me in his arms, stroking my hair with a gentle caress. "You're a vital element I can't function without. I really mean it when I say you're my sustenance, tesoro. You are it.

His words touch a chord in my heart. I kiss his chest before moving out of his hold, it's surprising that he allows me. "What time will you pick me up?"

He doesn't smile but he visibly relaxes. "7 pm."

"Any instructions on how I should dress?" I say, deliberately to lift the heavy tension between us as we walk out of the elevator, hand in hand.

"Will you listen?"

I scan my hand and retina to unlock the door and turn to him. "I don't think so."

"What's the purpose then?" He murmurs, leaning forward for a chaste kiss.

"I'll try to wear something you won't disapprove of."

"I like everything you wear. It's the male attention on you that I don't like, but there's nothing we can do about it, can we? You'll wear a sack and they'll still lust after you."

"Lucky you, then. They lust after me but I beg and grovel to be accepted by you."

If my words hurt him, he doesn't show it. "Tomorrow you become mine again, Juliette Vivienne Rothschild."

"Presumptuous."

"Determined, tesoro. How about I make you mine today?"

"Don't push it, your highness."

His eyes search mine for a lingering moment. "I missed this."

"Missed what?"

"Your highness," he leans closer to my ear and whispers.

I missed it too. So much. I want to say but my words don't come out.

I close my eyes instead and hug him, plastering myself to him and pressing my nose into the exposed column of his neck. We stay silent like this for a prolonged time before I kiss him there.

I pull back. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Try and stop me," he says challengingly with the corner of his lip curling up in derision.

He doesn't smile.

I have started missing his smile that I used to see when we were on his island and even when we were in Italy.

He's a man who rarely smiles. He's a proud man who doesn't need to unless he really wants to. But when he does, he means it. He did it for me and it used to light up my world, turning me into a ball of glee. I wish he would smile often.

"7 pm tomorrow. I'll see you then."

"9 am. I'll drop you off at work."

"No, I don't—"

He shushes me by pressing his index finger to my mouth. "No arguments, Belle. I'm already compromising on a lot of fronts against my will because of the grave sin I've committed by hurting you. Starting any more of my mornings without seeing your face is not a compromise I'll make."

"But—"

"There's nothing stopping me from crashing in your guest room or your living room or the couch in your bedroom," he entwines his fingers in mine and hauls me to him so that he's clutching my hands against his chest.

The ruthless dominant side of him taking over. The one that's scary. Not that he was far behind anyway.

"I have already made it clear to you, Belle. Don't mistake my repentance for timidity," he fields with studious cool while a dangerous gleam flares in his gaze. "For you, I'll do anything, including compromise for most parts, but I'm not a man who can be topped. I'm still who I am. I would never give up control."

I swallow hard, trying not to wither under his stubborn glare. "I can stop you if I want and there's nothing you can do to change it. I won't mistake anything but you shouldn't mistake my vulnerability for you as timidity either, Ares. Just because I'm indulging you doesn't mean I'll let you railroad me this time."

His eyes are set as granite as he studies me with an unimpressed frown.

His wide, sensual mouth is compressed because of my statement. "Is that what I'm doing? Railroading you?"

"I don't know," I exhale wearily, searching his gaze, squeezing his fingers gently.

He bends his dark head to kiss my hair. "I'll see you in the morning, baby. Dream of me."

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫?