The sedan glided through the city like a black predator, windows tinted so dark the outside world blurred into shadows.
Inside, the air was thick.
Ira thrashed like something feral trapped in a cage.
She kicked at the seat in front of her, shoes slamming leather. Her nails raked the door handle, the window glass, searching for any give. She twisted, lunged toward Vernon beside her, small fists flying toward his jaw, his throat, anything she could reach.
"Let me out! Get away from me! Don't you dare touch me!" Her voice cracked on every word, raw from screaming.
Vernon didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
When her next swing came too close, he moved—fast, precise. One large hand closed around both her wrists, pinning them together in the vise of his palm against the cold glass window of the car. His grip was iron wrapped in cold skin, unyielding but not bruising—yet.
Ira froze for half a second.
Then she yanked, hard, her whole body arching against the restraint. Her chest heaved, brushing his arm with every frantic breath. Strands of her dark hair stuck to her tear-streaked cheeks.
Vernon kept his sharp gaze on her.
His eyes—midnight-dark, bottomless—locked onto hers.
The car swayed gently around a curve. Streetlights slid across his sharp features, carving light and shadow over the high cheekbones, the faint scar along his left brow. He didn't speak. He simply looked.
And something in that long, motionless stare cracked the wildfire in Ira's chest.
Heat flooded her face—sudden, humiliating. Her ears burned. Her pulse thundered in her throat. She jerked her gaze away, staring at the darkened window, at her own blurred reflection superimposed over passing buildings.
Vernon noticed.
Of course he noticed.
*She was feeling shy!*
*She looked pretty with that look!*
Thoughts flooded Vernon's mind unconsciously.
His expression remained carved stone, but his gaze deepened.
Suddenly, Ira twisted violently again, without looking at him.
She jerked her wrists against his grip.
"Let go!"
Vernon's gaze was fixed at her.
Suddenly , his arm hooked around her waist, ( Ira's heart pounded hard) the other hand still manacling her wrists. In a single fluid motion he turned her, pulling her across the seat until she straddled his lap.
Ira gasped.
The sudden intimacy was suffocating.
Her bound hands were surrounded with his massive hands pressed together before her stomach, her back pressed flat against the hard plane of his chest. She could feel the steady, powerful thud of his heart beneath—completely at odds with her own racing, erratic rhythm.
Every point of contact burned.
Her thighs against his, her hips settled too intimately against him.
She was suddenly, painfully aware of how her body pressed against his—how warm his body was, how solid, how dangerously alive—his hard thighs beneath her, the heat of his body seeping through expensive fabric, the faint metallic scent of his cologne . Her skirt had ridden up; she could feel every inch of where they touched.
She went rigid. Face scarlet. Breath stuttering.
She tried to control the weird thoughts running inside her minds.
Vernon leaned in until his mouth hovered near the shell of her ear.
His voice came low, velvet over gravel.
"Stop fighting." A quiet exhale against her skin. "You'll only lose your energy."
Ira flinched violently. Her body jerked in protest—hips shifting, pressing harder against his, thighs clenching involuntarily around him as she tried to twist free. Every movement only ground her closer. She hated how aware she was of it. Hated him more for staying so still while her own body betrayed her with frantic, useless friction.
She started digging her nails into his skin. "Let—go—"
He didn't.
He simply held her there, arms banded around her , keeping her flush against him while the car purred onward.
Ira kept shifting and jolting during the ride, every sudden movement pressing her soft body against Vernon.
Her restless protests only made him more aware of her—each brush of contact stirring something warm and dangerously pleasant within him.
When the sedan finally slowed and turned through towering wrought-iron gates, the mansion rose before them like something out of a fever dream.
Golden sunset poured across pale stone walls, glittering off arched windows and marble columns. The grand double doors stood open, spilling warm light onto the circular drive.
Vernon opened the door and hooked an arm under Ira's knees and another behind her back, and lifted her over his shoulder again like she weighed nothing.
Ira immediately started clawing and kicking, nails digging into his coat,clawing his neck, heels drumming his ribs, voice splintering into curses.
"Put me down! Put me down, you monster!"
He carried her inside without a word.
The foyer was vast—marble floors reflecting chandeliers like frozen stars, double-height ceilings, a sweeping staircase of dark wood and iron. Guards in black suits snapped to attention. Servants froze mid-task—trays, dusters, vases—eyes wide.
Master Krossvale never brought anyone home.
Never.
Especially not a screaming, clawing girl.
Halfway across the foyer, Mr. Eldrin—silver-haired, immaculately suited, the house's ancient majordomo—stepped out from a corridor and stopped dead.
His gaze flicked from Vernon's impassive face to the wild girl draped over his shoulder like captured prey.
"Master…?"
Vernon didn't break stride.
He climbed the grand staircase, each step deliberate, Ira's furious cries echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
He kicked open the double doors to his bedroom.
—vast—walls paneled in dark walnut, heavy velvet drapes the color of old blood—the air felt thick, almost watchful. An Emperor bed loomed at the center, draped in white silk. Sunset streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, staining the polished floors in amber and crimson.
Vernon bent and dropped her—controlled—onto the mattress.
Ira bounced once, scrambled backward until her spine hit the headboard, knees drawn up, eyes blazing.
She was still in attack mode—chest heaving, fists clenched, ready to lunge.
Vernon shrugged off his coat, the fabric sliding from his shoulders. Beneath it, the pale stretch of skin where the bottle had struck was flushed an angry red. Without a word, he hung the coat neatly on the stand, movements calm and deliberate.
To be continued.....