The first thing Elara felt was the sheets. They weren't her scratchy, high-street cotton ones; they were cool, heavy silk that felt like a liquid embrace. The second thing she noticed was the silence—not the distant roar of Brooklyn traffic, but a muted, expensive stillness broken only by the hum of high-end climate control.
She groaned, her head throbbing with the rhythmic beat of a drum. As she rolled over, the fabric of what she was wearing shifted. It was too soft, too large.
She bolted upright, her eyes snapping open.
This wasn't her room. The walls were a deep, matte charcoal, and the windows revealed a panoramic view of Central Park from a height that made her stomach swoop. She looked down at herself. Her suit was gone. In its place, she was wearing a crisp, white button-down shirt that swallowed her frame, the hem reaching mid-thigh.
"Oh, no," she whispered, her face heating up.
Memories flickered like a broken film reel: a dark bar, a shot of whiskey, Leo's hand on her waist... and then, the terrifying, golden-eyed presence of Rowan Thorne. After that? Nothing but a blur of rain and the scent of cedar.
She slid out of the bed, her bare feet sinking into a rug so plush it felt like moss. She moved toward the door, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The scent of fresh coffee and browning butter led her toward the kitchen. Rowan was there. He had discarded his tie and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He was standing at the stove, a pair of silver tongs in one hand, looking entirely too comfortable in his own skin.
"You're awake," he said without turning around. "The coffee is on the counter. Drink it before you start your interrogation."
Elara gripped the oversized sleeves of his shirt, pulling them over her hands. "Mr. Thorne. Why am I here? And... why am I wearing your clothes?"
Rowan turned then.
He didn't look tired, despite having spent the night in an armchair watching her sleep. His gaze traveled slowly from her messy hair down to her bare legs, his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second before he returned to the stove.
"You were incapacitated," he said coolly. "You spilled a drink on your suit, and I wasn't going to let you sleep in damp wool. My housekeeper changed you."
It was a half-truth—he had watched the housekeeper do it to ensure she was gentle—but Elara didn't need to know that.
"I don't remember anything," she admitted, her voice small as she took the mug of coffee.
"Good," Rowan murmured. "It saves me the trouble of firing Leo for touching what isn't his."
Elara froze, the mug halfway to her lips. "He was just being a friend."
"I don't care about his intentions," Rowan said, stepping closer. He took a plate of perfectly golden French toast and set it on the marble island. "Sit. Eat."
He didn't rush her. He sat on the stool next to her, not across, and reached out to move a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers were warm, lingering against her temple just a second too long to be professional.
"You're safe here, Elara," he said, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register. "Better here than in a crowded bar where you can't see the sharks."
"You're a shark, too," she countered softly, her eyes meeting his.
Rowan leaned in, his face inches from hers. The morning sun caught the amber in his eyes, making them look like honey. "I'm the shark that keeps the others away. There's a difference."
He picked up a small carafe of maple syrup and began to pour it over her breakfast with a steady hand. The scene was domestic, almost cosy, but the air between them was thick with the unspoken tension of his obsession.
"Eat," he repeated, his thumb grazing the back of her hand as he let go of the syrup. "Then we'll discuss your new schedule. Since you can't be trusted to stay out of trouble on your own, you'll be staying late with me tonight to finish the maritime files."
Elara looked at him—at the man who had kidnapped her from a bar, dressed her in his shirt, and was now feeding her breakfast. She should have been running for the door. Instead, she took a bite of the French toast and felt a treacherous sense of warmth spread through her chest.
Or so she thought..