Chapter 1: The Mansion's Dark Hallway
The house swallowed sound. Jass’s heels clicked against the marble foyer, each tap echoing up into the vaulted darkness as she pushed the heavy front door shut. The quiet was a physical thing, thick and watchful, after the throbbing bass of the club. Everything here smelled of money—aged leather, lemon polish, the faint, dry scent of the huge floral arrangement on the console. Marcus’s family money.Her head swam, a pleasant, fuzzy tilt. Too many vodka sodas.Too many shots that tasted like candy and went down like regret. She kicked off her heels, the cold floor a shock against her soles, and padded into the main hallway.
It stretched away from her, a tunnel of polished oak and shadow. The only light came from a single, massive chandelier far down its length, its crystals catching and fracturing the glow into nervous, darting patterns on the walls. The air was cooler here, carrying a trace of Rok’s whiskey and something else, something masculine and clean. Her dress—a little black thing that felt tighter now—clung to her curves.She thought of Marcus, already asleep upstairs, probably surrounded by textbooks. Good, responsible Marcus. A flicker of guilt was quickly drowned by the warm, reckless buzz in her veins.
A silhouette moved at the far end of the hall, resolving into a broad-shouldered frame backlit by the dim light from the library.“Fred?” she murmured, the nickname slipping out. He was home earlier than expected.A pulse of tipsy hunger surged in her chest. Why wait?She walked towards him, the old floorboards groaning under her weight. He turned slightly, a dark profile against the light. Without a word, she closed the last of the distance, rose onto her toes, and pressed her mouth to his.He went perfectly still.
Then his hands came up, not to push her away, but to frame her face, his grip firm. Her fingers tangled in the soft wool of his sweater, then slid higher, into the coarse, silver-flecked beard.It was wrong. The scent was wrong—spice and expensive soap, not Marcus’s cheap body wash.The feel was wrong—harder, thicker.
But his mouth was moving against hers, and it was a deep, claiming kiss that emptied the air from her lungs. It wasn’t sweet.It was consumption. A low sound escaped her throat, part surprise, part pure, unfiltered pleasure.Her body arched into his of its own accord.A new shadow fell across them. A softer, amused chuckle cut through the silence of the hall.
“Starting the party without me?”
Jass broke the kiss, stumbling back a step.Her heart hammered against her ribs. It wasn’t Marcus.It was Rok. Rok, Marcus’s father, his piercing gray eyes now dark with a look she had never seen, a look that pinned her to the spot.
And leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest, was Dame.Marcus’s older brother. A slow, knowing smirk played on his lips.
“I… I thought you were…” Jass stammered, the words slurring.The alcohol turned the panic into a slow-motion stumble.
“Shhh,” Rok said, his voice a low rumble. He hadn’t let go of her face.His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “Thought is overrated.”
Dame pushed off the wall. He was bigger up close, the tattoos on his forearms shifting under the skin as he moved.He didn’t ask. He simply tipped her chin up with a finger and kissed her.It was different from Rok’s—more aggressive, all tongue and teeth and confident invasion. It was vulgar.It was thrilling. A shudder wracked her, a bloom of heat spreading low in her belly, confusing shame with a devastating need.
When Dame pulled back, she was panting.Her back was against Rok’s solid chest.His arms circled her waist, holding her upright.
“See?” Dame murmured, his lips against her temple.“No thinking.Just feeling. You feel so good, Jass.”
Her mind screamed a weak protest, a distant echo of loyalty. But her body was traitorously alive, every nerve ending firing under their dual attention. Rok’s hands were moving, skimming up her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the thin dress. Dame watched, his smirk deepening, before he dipped his head again to kiss the bare curve of her shoulder.
“This… can’t…” she breathed, but it was a whisper lost in the rustle of fabric.“It already is,” Rok stated. His fingers found the zipper at the back of her dress.The sound was obscenely loud in the hall. The dress loosened, pooling at her shoulders.Dame took over. He peeled the fabric down her arms, his movements efficient, leaving her standing in just her lace bra and panties, bathed in the flickering chandelier light. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin, but their hands were everywhere, warm and sure, chasing the chill away.
Rok turned her in his arms, kissing her deeply again, one hand cupping the back of her head. She was adrift in sensation. Dame’s mouth was on her neck, his stubble rough, his hands sliding over her hips, gripping the swell of her ass.He bit down gently on her earlobe.
“Look at you,” Dame breathed.“All that energy in the club, and here you are. Ours.”
The word landed like a stone in the pool of her pleasure.Ours.