The city's lights stretched endlessly, cold and distant like stars in a forgotten sky. Elira Viera stood alone on the rooftop balcony, the sharp edge of the night air biting at her skin. She sipped her whiskey slowly, letting the burn chase away the questions she refused to ask herself.
This night was supposed to be just another distraction—a momentary escape from the shadows of her past. No promises. No complications. Just silence and glass.
But then, through the crowded room below, her eyes caught his: Kian Wolfe. The man whose name was whispered in boardrooms and battles, a billionaire known for his ruthless power and cold charm. His gaze was a challenge, sharp enough to cut through steel.
In that instant, Elira felt everything shift. What she thought was control slipped through her fingers like smoke. And she knew, with a sudden, aching certainty—nothing about this night, or her life, would ever be simple again.
He reached her before she realized she hadn't moved.
"Whiskey?"
His voice—low, velvet, dangerous—slipped beneath her skin.
She didn't look at him right away. "Helps me tolerate billionaires with God complexes."
Kian chuckled, slow and deep. "Good thing I left the God part at home tonight."
Now she turned.
And damn him—he was exactly as infuriatingly perfect as she remembered.
Tailored black suit. A jaw carved by storms. Eyes like dark secrets. The kind of man who ruined peace by simply existing.
"I heard you don't do small talk," she said coolly.
"I heard you don't do second nights," he countered.
A pause.
Then a smirk tugged at her lips. "You stalking me, Wolfe?"
He leaned in slightly, close enough that his cologne teased her senses, expensive and intoxicating. "Not yet. But I'm curious."
Elira held his gaze, unflinching. "Curiosity is dangerous."
"So am I."
Silence fell between them—thick, electric.
The city blinked beneath them, oblivious to the war quietly igniting in a single glance.
She should've walked away.
But Elira had never been the kind of woman to retreat.
And Kian?
He'd never met a woman who walked into fire without blinking.
"You always this charming?" Elira asked, swirling the amber liquid in her glass.
Kian's lips curved, but there was steel in his eyes. "Only when I know I'm being watched."
She raised a brow. "By who?"
He didn't blink. "You."
That disarmed her for half a second—but Elira didn't flinch easily. She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the stone, her head tilting just enough to challenge him.
"Don't mistake observation for interest," she said, her voice velvet-edged. "I study threats. That's all."
"Is that what I am to you?" he asked, inching closer.
She met his gaze, steady. "Every empire has its poison. I'm just trying to identify yours."
Kian's smile faded into something quieter, more dangerous. "And what if it's you, Elira?"
The way he said her name—slow, deliberate, like a taste he wanted to memorize—sent a shiver down her spine. One she masked instantly.
She stepped past him, brushing his shoulder on purpose. "Then you're already dying."
And with that, she disappeared back into the crowd—leaving him watching, still and strangely shaken.
Because for the first time in years…
Kian Wolfe didn't know if he was hunting or being hunted.
Later That Night
Suite 1807. Too High, Too Quiet.
Elira hadn't meant to see him again.
She told herself she was just passing through the hotel lounge. Just looking for silence. Just… breathing.
But somehow her feet carried her to the elevator.
Somehow her fingers pressed the button.
Somehow she was standing outside his suite.
The door opened before she could knock.
Kian stood there, no jacket, no tie—just a shirt with two buttons undone and a look in his eyes that said he'd been waiting.
Neither spoke.
Not when she stepped inside.
Not when he closed the door.
Not even when his hands found her waist and hers tugged at his shirt like she hated it.
They weren't looking for reasons.
Only release.
That night was not soft.
It was fire.
Anger. Need. Regret already curling in the corners of her mind.
But she didn't stop.
And neither did he.
Because sometimes… war begins with a kiss.
Later That Night — Behind Closed Doors
The air was thick with tension. Not the kind that begged to be solved, but the kind that demanded to be undone.
Elira's back hit the wall softly. Kian's hands were already on her waist, steady but possessive—like he wasn't sure whether to worship her or punish her for showing up.
"You knew what this would lead to," he murmured, his breath brushing her ear.
She tilted her head, eyes dark. "I'm not here for sweet promises."
"I don't offer them anyway."
Mouths met, sharp and impatient. There was no gentleness. Just years of silence breaking in a single kiss. His hands slid up her sides, mapping her like a man starved of touch. She pushed him back just enough to tug his shirt over his head, nails grazing along the scars and strength beneath.
Every movement was a challenge.
Every breath, a dare.
They weren't falling—they were colliding.
The room blurred. Clothes vanished. The night stretched long and unforgiving.
And in the hours between dusk and regret, Elira forgot every reason she had to stay away.
She only remembered his voice in her ear, rough and reverent—
Like he was breaking every rule to touch her like this.
Just Before Dawn
4:17 AM. The City Still Sleeping.
The sky outside was still ink-black when Elira sat up in bed.
Kian was asleep beside her—bare-chested, one arm sprawled across where she had just been. His face, so often carved in arrogance and precision, was strangely quiet in sleep. Almost… human.
Elira hesitated.
Just for a second.
Her fingertips lingered over his skin, ghosting down his chest like a whisper she'd never say aloud.
But then she stood.
One piece at a time, she gathered her dress, her heels, her silence. She didn't look back—not when she opened the suite door, not when she stepped barefoot into the cold hallway.
The quiet between them had been louder than their night.
Because Elira didn't believe in morning-after messes.
She believed in disappearing before dawn, before names turned heavy and looks turned soft.
But as the elevator doors closed, something tight settled in her chest.
Regret? No.
It couldn't be.
Just a mistake, she told herself.
A powerful, dangerous, addictive mistake.
And she'd never make it again.
Until she did.
A Few Hours Later
Suite 1807. 8:02 AM.
Kian reached across the bed without opening his eyes—fingers grazing only sheets.
Cold.
His brows furrowed. He blinked awake slowly, letting the blur of light filter in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was quiet. Too quiet.
She was gone.
No dress slung over the armchair.
No scent of perfume lingering in the air.
No note. No text.
Nothing.
His jaw clenched.
He wasn't used to this. He was the one who left, the one who ended things first. That was the rule, his rhythm. But Elira… she had rewritten it in a single night.
And damn her—he hadn't even realized when she slipped out.
Kian sat up, dragging a hand through his hair, his chest tight with something he didn't name. He'd thought she'd want more.
Thought she'd stay long enough to turn morning into a weapon.
But she was smarter than that.
Unreachable. Unapologetic. Untouched by him… even after last night.
He stared out the window, the city humming below like nothing had happened.
But something had.
And no matter how far she ran, Elira wouldn't stay gone forever.
He'd make sure of it.