Zuriel’s back is pressed hard against a battered metal crate, breath sawing through gritted teeth. His hands grip the edges, scarred knuckles bleached white, sweat tracing a line down his throat. Lys’s palm—a flash of dusky gold in the dim, flickering bulb—slides over his jaw, nails leaving faint lines as she holds his face steady. Her eyes, sharp as cut glass, flick up to meet his. She leans in close, lips hovering just out of reach. Her voice is a whisper, velvet and razor wire. “You’re in my way.” For a heartbeat, Zuriel can’t speak. Her scent—cigarette ash and something floral—floods his mind, a sweetness he’d never admit he wants. He tries to laugh, but it crumples in his chest. “You called this your party,” she murmurs, thumb brushing his lower lip. “Show me.”

He surges forward, all impatience and hunger. They crash together, mouths colliding, hands knotting in each other’s clothes. Lys’s shirt rides up as Zuriel yanks her closer. She tastes like wine and salt, like something he’s needed for years. His hand slips beneath fabric, tracing the heat of her waist, nails digging in as if to anchor them both to this moment. Lys bites down on his lip, hard enough to make his breath hitch, her keen smirk never leaving. He pushes her back into the shadows, crates wobbling dangerously. For a split second, she lets him see it—the flicker of need, the shield of bravado thinning. He’s panting, forehead pressed to hers. “You want control,” she says, voice trembling just enough. “Prove it.” Zuriel’s answer is wordless: his hand sliding beneath her skirt, her gasp shattering the hush. The warehouse clatters with discarded buttons and the muffled sound of desperate bodies finding each other. Her nails score his back. Their bodies fall into rhythm—rough, wild, both pretending not to care how much it means as everything outside the small pool of light vanishes.

After, they’re tangled and half-dressed, breathless. Lys wipes sweat from her brow, eyes unreadable as she buttons her shirt, deliberately slow. Zuriel stands, tucking himself away, pulse pounding in every vein. He watches her, jaw clenched. For a second, vulnerability hangs in the air. She breaks it with a laugh—a little too loud—flicks imaginary dust from her skirt, and glances over her shoulder. “We never speak of this,” she says flatly, though her voice is thinner than before. Zuriel shrugs, mask slipping into place. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” But his gaze lingers on the curve of her mouth, the bitten bruise on her neck she doesn’t bother to hide.

A shout echoes from the far end of the warehouse, slicing through the tension. Lys is already moving, hips swaying as she slips into the main corridor, head high, posture regal despite the tremor in her hands. Zuriel follows, shirt half-tucked, still burning from the taste of her, the thrill and the ache warring inside him. He wants to drag her back behind the crates, to force her to say it mattered—but pride holds him rooted to the spot.

The main floor blurs with frantic, nervous energy—workers hustling, voices sharp with fear. Lys’s heels click sharply over concrete as she barks out orders, her confidence settling back over her like armor. Zuriel stalks the perimeter, surveying the others with a wolfish scowl, lingering possessively on Lys whenever she passes. She pointedly ignores his stare, lips twitching with each new command.

A shadow by the loading bay door catches Zuriel’s attention. He stops dead. A figure stands there—tall, lean, and perfectly still—suit immaculate even in the warehouse gloom. Axton’s eyes glint with a calculated coldness as he takes in the scene. His gaze lingers on Zuriel, a flicker of recognition and something darker pulsing between them. Lys’s voice falters as she spots him, the color draining from her cheeks.

Axton steps inside, closing the door with a soft, final click that echoes—too loud, too ominous. Zuriel feels the air narrow between him and Lys, jealousy and unease prickling down his spine. Axton smiles, but it’s all teeth. “Well,” he drawls, eyes never leaving Zuriel, “seems I’m just in time. Shall we begin?”

Zuriel’s pulse thrums, heart hammering with more than lust now. Lys glances at him, panic flickering beneath her cool demeanor. The air is charged, about to crack. Nothing will be the same after tonight.

To be continued...