The interior of the SUV was a silent, leather-scented cocoon. Elara was slumped against the passenger seat, the world outside the tinted windows blurring into streaks of neon and rain. The vibration of the engine hummed through her bones, pulling her deeper into a dizzy, alcohol-induced haze.
"Where are we going?" she managed to mumble, her head lolling toward Rowan.
He didn't answer immediately. His hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He didn't look at her, but the intensity of his presence filled the small space.
"You aren't in any condition to be left alone in that apartment, Elara. And I'm not letting that roommate of yours see you like this."
"Maya... Maya is nice," Elara protested, her eyes fluttering shut. "She'd give me... water."
"I'll give you water," Rowan snapped, though his voice softened as he glanced at her. He reached over, his large hand cupping her cheek for a second to steady her as he took a sharp turn. His skin was cool, a stark contrast to the fire burning under her skin.
When the car stopped, they weren't at her walk-up in Brooklyn. They were in an underground garage that looked like a high-end gallery. Rowan didn't wait for her to move. He walked around, opened her door, and scooped her back into his arms.
Elara was too tired to fight. She let her head rest against his shoulder, her fingers curling into the expensive fabric of his dress shirt.
"You're very bossy," she whispered.
"Get used to it," he replied.
The elevator opened directly into his home. It was a space of vast shadows and floor-to-ceiling glass, overlooking the city like a throne room. It was cold, minimalist, and lonely—until he set her down on a deep, oversized velvet sofa that felt like a cloud.
"Stay there," he commanded.
Elara watched through half-closed eyes as he moved through the darkened kitchen. He stripped off his suit jacket and tossed it onto a chair, then began unbuttoning his waistcoat. He looked less like a CEO and more like a man possessed by a singular task.
He returned a moment later with a glass of water and a small, chilled towel.
"Drink," he said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. He slipped a hand behind her neck, lifting her head with surprising gentleness so she could sip.
The water helped, clearing some of the fog. When she finished, he took the cold towel and began to dab her forehead and the back of her neck. His movements were clinical, but his eyes were dark with a hunger he wasn't quite hiding.
"Why did you go?" he asked, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. "I told you not to."
"I don't... take orders from you outside the office," Elara whispered, her defiance returning in a small, shaky spark.
Rowan's hand stopped moving. He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. The scent of him—cedar, rain, and power—was overwhelming. "Everywhere is my office when it comes to you, Elara. You think you're running from your father, but you've just run into someone much more selfish."
He set the towel aside and reached for a heavy cashmere throw that was draped over the back of the sofa. He tucked it around her, his fingers lingering near her chin.
"You're shivering," he noted.
He didn't get up. He stayed there, watching her as she began to drift off. The obsessed edge in his gaze hadn't faded; if anything, seeing her vulnerable in his space had sharpened it. He reached out and began to unlace her loafers—the ones he had bought her—with a reverence that was almost unsettling.
"You're keeping the shoes on," she murmured, her voice trailing off into sleep.
"I'm keeping you," he whispered back, so low she couldn't be sure she heard it.
He didn't go to his own bed that night. He stayed in the armchair across from her, a silent sentinel in the dark, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest until the sun began to bleed over the Manhattan skyline.