Chapter 4: The Invitation
The first light of dawn was a grey thief, stealing through the blinds to expose them. Willow woke to the unfamiliar weight of an arm across her ribs, the coarse hair of a masculine chest against her bare back. Gunnar’s breath was warm and even on her neck. For a dizzying moment, she forgot who she was. There was only the heat of him, the solid safety of his body curled around hers, the deep, sated ache between her legs.
Then it crashed back. The mission. The ledger. Rowan’s icy threat. Detective Willow Davies.
She carefully extricated herself, slipping from the bed. He stirred, a low rumble in his chest, but didn’t wake. She found her clothes scattered on the floor—her jeans, her sweater, the boots with the knife. She dressed quietly, her mind racing. The safehouse. She was inside one of Gunnar Volkov’s inner sanctums. This was an opportunity her handlers would kill for.
She padded out of the bedroom, into the cool minimalism of the living area. The surveillance feeds on the etched glass walls were dark now, just ghostly blue rectangles. She moved silently, her training taking over. Her fingers brushed over books on a shelf, felt along the underside of a side table, her eyes scanning for anything that resembled a safe, a hidden compartment, a digital drive.
The kitchen was spotless. Too spotless. She opened cabinets, finding only expensive dishware. The refrigerator held vintage champagne and nothing else. This was a place for hiding, not living.
A soft click from the hallway froze her blood.
The front door opened. Rowan stepped inside, his movements silent as smoke. He saw her immediately, frozen by the refrigerator door. His eyes, the color of a winter lake, swept over her disheveled hair, her borrowed sweatpants—Gunnar’s, too long, rolled at the waist—and her bare feet. A white envelope was pinched between his fingers.
“Looking for a midnight snack?” His voice was a low rasp, devoid of emotion.
“Coffee,” she said, forcing a casual tone. “Does this place even have coffee?”
“It doesn’t.” He didn’t move further in, blocking the exit. “He’s still asleep.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. She saw the faint twitch in his jaw, the way his gaze flickered towards the closed bedroom door and then back to her, sharp enough to cut.
“What do you want, Rowan?”
“To deliver this.” He held up the envelope. “And to see for myself.”
“See what?”
“The damage.” He took a step forward. She held her ground. “You think this is a game? You think you’ve won some prize? He doesn’t bring women here. Ever.”
“Maybe I’m different.”
“You’re a problem.” Another step. The space between them crackled with hostility. “And problems get solved.”
From the bedroom doorway, a voice, rough with sleep, cut through the tension. “Is there a reason you’re harassing my guest before I’ve had my first cigarette?”
Gunnar stood leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, his jeans slung low on his hips. His hair was mussed, his beard dark against his skin. He looked utterly at ease, but his grey eyes were sharp, focused on Rowan.
Rowan’s posture stiffened. He turned, the envelope extended. “The shipping manifests from the Dutch port. They need your signature.”
“Leave them on the table.” Gunnar pushed off the frame and walked into the living room, his bare feet silent on the polished concrete. He didn’t look at the envelope. His attention was on Willow, a possessive, smoldering heat rekindling in his gaze as he took in her wearing his clothes. He stopped inches from her, his back to Rowan. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Needed to move,” she murmured, her detective’s instinct screaming at the dangerous triangle they formed.
He reached out, tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. His thumb traced the line of her jaw. It was a blatant display, a message to the man watching them. “Come back to bed.”
“Boss,” Rowan’s voice was strained. “The manifests. Kovac’s people will be—”
“Fuck the manifests.” Gunnar’s voice dropped, a low command meant only for Willow, but audible in the dead silence of the room. His hand slid down her neck, over her collarbone, to the waistband of the sweatpants. He hooked a finger in it, pulling her gently towards him. “And fuck whatever he’s saying.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “I can feel you thinking from across the room. Stop.”
He kissed her then, not with the violent passion of the night before, but with a deliberate, languid ownership. His tongue swept into her mouth, his hands coming to cradle her face. She melted into it, a part of her performance, a larger part a surrender to the addicting heat of him. A soft sound escaped her throat.
Over Gunnar’s shoulder, she saw Rowan. He hadn’t moved. The envelope hung limply from his hand. His face was a pale, rigid mask, but his eyes… his eyes burned with a fury so intense it was like a physical touch. They were fixed on the point where Gunnar’s hands met her skin.
Gunnar broke the kiss, his own breath slightly quickened. He kept his forehead resting against hers. “Rowan. The table. Then the door.”
For a long, suspended second, nothing happened. Then Rowan moved. He placed the envelope on the steel side table with a precise, quiet tap. He didn’t look at them again. He turned and walked to the front door. But he didn’t open it. He stood there, his hand on the handle, his back rigid.
Gunnar ignored him. His attention was solely on Willow. His hands slid under the oversized shirt she wore, his palms warm on her bare waist. He walked her backwards, step by step, toward the bedroom. As they crossed the threshold, he kicked the door with his heel.
It didn’t latch. It swung open a foot, a slice of view into the dim bedroom.
Gunnar guided her to the edge of the bed. “On your back,” he murmured, his voice thick.
She lay down, the cool duvet beneath her. He followed her down, covering her body with his, kissing her again, deeper now. His hands were everywhere, pushing the shirt up, palming her breasts, thumbing her nipples into hard peaks. He was hard already, the length of him pressing against her thigh through his jeans. She wrapped her legs around his hips, arching into him.
He broke away, sitting back on his heels to look at her sprawled beneath him. His gaze was hungry, but there was a new edge to it—a performative cruelty. He knew. He knew Rowan was still there, just outside the door.
“Such a greedy little thing,” he said, loud enough to carry. His hand slid down her stomach, over the waistband of the sweatpants, and inside. He didn’t tease. His fingers found her wet heat immediately. “Still soaked for me. All night, you’ve been dreaming about this, haven’t you?”
“Gunnar,” she breathed, her own role clicking into place. She was Sloane, wanton and captured. She let her head fall back, a moan spilling from her lips as his fingers worked her.
“Say it,” he demanded, his eyes locked on hers.
“I dreamed about you. About your cock.”
He smirked, a dark, triumphant thing. He shifted, yanking the sweatpants down her legs and off. He opened his own jeans, freeing himself. He was fully erect, thick and veined. He didn’t enter her. Instead, he positioned himself over her, his tip nudging her entrance. He held himself there, a torturous promise.
Through the open door, in the sliver of the living room, she saw a shadow move. Rowan hadn’t left. He was standing there, watching. She couldn’t see his face, only the tense line of his shoulders.
Gunnar saw it too. A spark of something dangerous—challenge, dominance—flared in his eyes. He leaned down, his mouth by her ear. “He’s watching,” he whispered, a filthy secret. “He’s always watching. Let him see what’s mine.”
Then his hand came down, not on her face, but between her legs. A sharp, wet crack as his palm smacked her pussy. The sting was electric, blossoming into a deep, shocking pleasure. She cried out, her hips jerking off the bed.
Before the sensation faded, he shoved three fingers inside her, curling them ruthlessly. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled, his voice no longer a whisper. “You like being used. Being shown.”
“Yes!” The word was torn from her, half-performative, half-real. Her body was betraying her, responding to his rough ownership, to the illicit thrill of the audience. Her climax began to coil, tight and urgent.
Gunnar’s gaze flicked to the door. His voice, when he spoke, was a cold, clear command that sliced through the room. “Close the door. Or get out.”
The shadow in the doorway remained perfectly still for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, it shifted. Rowan’s hand came into view, gripping the edge of the door. In the dim light, Willow saw the telltale strain of fabric at his crotch, a undeniable bulge pressing against his zipper. He was hard. A tremor of something like fear, or understanding, shot through her.
Rowan’s ice-cold eyes met Gunnar’s through the open space. A silent, brutal communication passed between them. Then, with a violence that made the wall shudder, Rowan yanked the door shut. The slam echoed in the sudden quiet.
Gunnar let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He looked down at Willow, his fingers still buried inside her, his own need obvious. “Now,” he said, withdrawing his fingers and lining himself up. “Where were we?”
He drove into her in one fierce, unbroken stroke, filling her utterly. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust pushing a choked sound from her lungs. This was different from before. This was not just sex, or even possession. This was a territory being marked, a point being made with the only language men like them understood. Power. Submission. Claim.
He fucked her with a focused intensity, his eyes never leaving her face, watching every flicker of pleasure and pain. She came violently, her inner muscles clenching around him in rolling waves, her vision whiting out. He followed seconds after, his own release a hot flood, his groan muffled against her neck.
He collapsed on her, his weight a welcome anchor. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing. The reality of what had just happened, the psychological violence of it, settled over Willow like a toxic cloud. She had been a prop in a power play between two dangerous men. And she had, for a moment, loved it.
Gunnar rolled off her, onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice flat. “He won’t bother you again.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Was that for me? Or for him?”
A faint, tired smile touched his lips. He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached over, his hand finding hers on the sheet. His fingers laced with hers, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made her heart clench with a confused agony.
“Sleep, Sloane,” he said, closing his eyes. “Just sleep.”
But she lay awake, listening to his breathing even out, her hand still in his. Outside the fortified window, the city began to wake. Somewhere, in a evidence locker downtown, her service pistol and badge sat in a drawer. And somewhere, just on the other side of a door, a man seethed with a jealousy so deep it could only end in blood.