The study was a tomb of amber light and old smoke. Maya stood before Manuel’s desk, her hands clenched at her sides. “I need to see her.”

Manuel didn’t look up from the ledger he was reviewing. His pen scratched across the paper. “No.”

“She needs me. Her father was just shot. She’s with Eric, and he’s—”

“He is what he is.” Manuel finally lifted his gaze. The lamplight carved harsh planes into his face. “She is exactly where she needs to be. With him. It is the only place that is safe for her now.”

“Safe? You call that safe? After what he did to her last night?” Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with a fury that felt new and sharp in her throat. “I heard her crying through the wall.”

Manuel closed the ledger with a soft, definitive thud. The sound was a period. “What you heard is not your concern. Eric is handling it.”

“Handling her.” Maya took a step forward, the Persian rug soft under her bare feet. “I’m not asking for your permission. I’m telling you. I am going to my friend.”

He leaned back in his leather chair, the material groaning. His eyes, dark and unreadable, tracked her. “You are telling me.”

“Yes.”

“Then you have made a mistake.”

He stood. The movement was not rushed. It was tectonic. The space between them, which had felt like a chasm, vanished in two strides. His hand shot out, not to hit, but to capture. His fingers wrapped around her upper arm, a band of heat and pressure.

She tried to pull back. “Let go of me.”

He didn’t. He used her momentum to spin her, pressing her front against the cold, polished edge of the oak desk. The ledger dug into her ribs. “You do not tell me. In this house, you do not rebel.” His voice was a low rumble against her ear, his beard scratching her temple. His other hand flattened between her shoulder blades, holding her down.

“Stop it, Manuel.” She pushed against the desk, but his weight was immovable. She felt the cool air on her legs as he shoved her dress up around her waist. The humiliation was a cold wave, followed immediately by a hotter, sharper spike of anger. She twisted, her elbow connecting with nothing but air. “I said stop!”

He didn’t answer with words. His hand left her back, and she heard the rasp of his zipper. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Then his fingers were at the waistband of her underwear, yanking them down to her thighs. The silk tore.

She froze. Not from submission, but from a shocking, visceral awareness. The hard line of his body against her. The heat radiating from him. The scent of his cologne and something wilder, purely male, filled her nose. Her own body betrayed her, a treacherous pulse of heat blooming low in her belly.

He didn’t prepare her. He didn’t gentle her. He positioned himself and pushed inside with one brutal, claiming stroke.

Maya gasped. The stretch was sudden, overwhelming. Her fingers scrambled against the smooth oak, finding no purchase. He was everywhere, filling her, the desk digging into her hips with each driving thrust. It was not love. It was possession. A wolf taking what was his.

She tried to clench against him, to force him out, but her body refused the command. Instead, it arched, taking him deeper. A broken sound escaped her lips, part protest, part something else. Pleasure, sharp and unwanted, began to coil tight alongside the ache. Her skin flushed hot everywhere his body touched hers.

His breathing was harsh in her ear, his rhythm relentless. One hand fisted in her hair, not pulling, just holding, a anchor point in the storm. The other hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding the slick, swollen heat between her legs where their bodies joined.

She cried out then, a sharp, choked sound. The dual sensation—him inside her, his thumb circling that aching point—shattered her resistance. Her body tightened around him, a involuntary, pulsing grip. She came, a silent, seismic wave that shook through her, leaving her trembling and weak against the desk.

He followed moments later. A guttural groan vibrated through his chest into her back. He drove deep and held there, his entire body rigid. She felt the hot pulse of his release inside her.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling with the faint scent of sex and old leather. Slowly, he withdrew. The loss of him left her feeling hollowed out and exposed.

He stepped back, adjusting his clothes with a chilling efficiency. Maya pushed herself up, her arms shaking. She pulled her dress down, the torn underwear still tangled around her thighs. She didn’t look at him. She stared at the grain of the wood, her mind a static hum.

Then she turned. Her face was streaked with tears she hadn’t felt falling. Her voice, when it came, was raw but clear. “Let me see Kristen.”

Manuel was buttoning his cuff, his expression once again a mask of detached control. “I have said no.”

“I’ll make you a trade.” She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “You let me go to her. For one hour. And I’ll give you something you want.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing. “I have everything I want.”

“You don’t have Laurent.”

The air in the room went still. Manuel’s gaze sharpened, the predator focus returning. “What do you know?”

“I know where he might be.” She held his stare, the taste of the transaction metallic on her tongue. “The phone I found. The tracking signal. It wasn’t just live. It had a history. A pattern. I memorized it.”

He took a single step toward her. “Tell me.”

“After,” she said, her heart hammering against her ribs. “After I see my friend.”