Tavian’s back thuds hard against cold metal. His breath stutters, fogging a strip of glass. Lyska is inches from him, her dark hair falling like a curtain as she plants her palm beside his head—the break room’s harsh LED glare bouncing off her rings. She watches him, lips parted in a crooked, predatory smile. Her fitted blazer is unbuttoned at the throat, her bare collarbone gleaming with the faintest sheen of sweat; the crisp line of her black trousers disappears beneath the hem of her shirt as she leans in, the scent of citrus and coffee swirling between them. She drags her gaze up his stubbled jaw to his wide, uncertain eyes.

He can’t decide where to look: her mouth, her hands, the dangerous glint in her gaze. His tie—one she’s just yanked loose—hangs askew over the chest of his rumpled oxford. Her fingers slip under his shirt, skimming over his ribs; his breath catches, a sharp, surprised sound. Heat rushes to his face, his pulse beating at his throat. For a split second, shame threatens to swallow him whole—he’s never been touched like this in the open, never under anyone’s scrutiny, never by someone like her. But her thumb draws slow circles against his skin, and his nerves melt under her touch.

“Scared, Frendell?” she whispers, her voice a blade and a balm. Her nails graze the faint scar just under his ribs. A tremor runs through his body, part anticipation, part terror. She’s so close he can feel her breath against his cheek, the brush of her lip just skimming his jaw—deliberate, barely there, withholding. Still, his hand lifts, hesitant, to her waist; she lets him, just for a moment, her own fingers tightening against his side.

He wants to answer—wants to sound clever, not like prey—but his voice fails. He nods almost imperceptibly, jaw clenched. Lyska laughs, low and dangerous, and her eyes flicker with something softer before she pulls back abruptly, leaving a ghost of heat in the air between them.

The break room door swings shut behind her. Tavian stands frozen, shirt askew, his skin flushed where her hands lingered. Voices from the corridor slice through the silence—Viessa, all bright lipstick and nervous chatter, slides inside, arching a brow at Tavian. She takes in his disheveled state, grins knowingly, and tosses him a can of soda. “Rough first day?” she teases, her gaze sharp but not unkind.

He forces a laugh, shoving shaking hands into his pockets. He feels raw, seen. Viessa sidles closer, her long sweater sleeves pushed past her elbows, bracelets chiming as she leans in, conspiratorial. “Don’t let her eat you alive,” she says in a stage whisper, eyes flicking to the door Lyska disappeared behind.

Tavian tries for a joke, but his smile wavers. Even the easy warmth of Viessa’s presence isn’t enough to settle him. The memory of Lyska’s voice—her lips so close, her threat and promise tangled together—cuts through every word.

Later, in the men’s room, Tavian stares at his own reflection, collar askew, cheeks pink. He rubs his thumb over the barely visible scar Lyska had found, searching for some sense of composure. He scrolls through his phone with trembling fingers, deleting a message—one with a subject line he can’t afford anyone to see. The risk, the shame, the lingering want: it’s all written in the way his pupils dilate, the shiver that runs through him when he remembers the heat of her palm and how close she’d let him get to touching her.

When he steps out, Lyska is waiting in the hall, arms crossed, her mouth set in a challenge. She sizes him up, her gaze flicking to the undone tie, the rawness in his expression. “I like the way you look when you’re cornered,” she murmurs, barely loud enough for him to hear.

He flushes again, but this time he doesn’t back away. For a breathless beat, neither moves.

The rest of the day unspools in a blur of urgent meetings and sidelong glances. Whispers chase Tavian through the open-plan offices—his past, his family, rumors that sting like static. Viessa’s laughter and sly winks almost distract him, but every time he spots Lyska, her eyes catch on his, the world narrowing to their private friction.

As dusk falls, Tavian sits alone, the glow of city lights bleeding through tinted glass. His phone buzzes. One message: Lyska.

Meet me on the roof. Midnight. No one else.

A chill, a thrill, runs through him—equal parts hunger and dread. He hesitates, then grabs his jacket, heading for the stairwell. Up on the rooftop, the wind tugs at his shirt. He steps into the moonlight, pulse pounding. But he isn’t alone; a figure waits in the shadows—taller, motionless, eyes burning through the dark. Not Lyska.

His heart slams against his ribs as he realizes who it is.

To be continued…