The crowd swallowed them. Bodies pressed close, laughter colliding with the bass of the house music, and Tisha kept her eyes on the glass in her hand, watching the amber liquid tilt as Pete's palm settled against the bare skin of her lower back.

His hand was warm. Heavy. A brand she felt through the silk of her dress, through the thin fabric that suddenly felt like nothing at all. His thumb found the dip of her spine and pressed, just barely, a suggestion more than a touch, and she realized she'd been holding her breath.

"You're not drinking." His voice came low, close to her ear, the words brushing past her hair.

She lifted the glass, took a sip. The whiskey burned, settled warm in her chest. "Happy now?"

"Getting there." His hand slid lower. Not far—an inch, maybe two—but the shift was deliberate, the curve of her hip meeting his palm like it had been waiting for it. His thumb pressed through the thin silk, a slow circle that made her stomach tighten.

She should say something. Should step back, create distance, and remind him she didn't even know his last name. But the whiskey was warm, and his hand was warm, and the way he looked at her made her feel like the only woman in a room full of hundreds.

"Who are you?" The words slipped out before she could stop them. "Really."

He didn't answer at first. His hand stayed where it was, thumb still tracing that slow, dangerous circle against her hip. His gray eyes held hers, and she saw something flicker there—a calculation, a decision.

"Someone who knows what he wants," he said finally. "And isn't afraid to take it."

The words should have scared her. They did scare her, somewhere deep where the whiskey hadn't reached. But the way he said it—not as a threat, but as a fact, simple and unashamed—made something shift in her chest.

"That sounds like a warning."

"It's not." His thumb stopped moving. Settled. A claim. "It's a promise. I don't warn people, Tisha. I act."

A flash went off to their left—a photographer, capturing the crowd, the glitter, the illusion of glamour. Tisha blinked, the spell breaking for a second, and in that second, she felt how close he was. His chest nearly touched her shoulder. His breath stirred the hair at her temple. The heat of him surrounded her like a second skin.

"Let's get some air." It wasn't a question.

His hand pressed against her lower back, guiding her forward, and she went because going felt easier than staying, because the party was too loud and his hand was too warm and she needed to breathe without the weight of his attention pressing down on her.

He steered her past a cluster of photographers, their cameras swinging toward them before he angled his body to block the shots. A protective gesture, or a possessive one—she couldn't tell which. His shoulder blocked the flash, his arm a barrier between her and the lenses, and she caught the scent of his cologne again, something dark and expensive, something that made her think of leather and old wood and money that didn't need to announce itself.

They passed the bar, passed a group of laughing models she vaguely recognized from the show, passed a doorway where a woman in red was whispering something to a man in a suit. The penthouse sprawled around them, room after room of glittering strangers, and Pete moved through it all like he owned every square inch.

The hallway was quieter. Dimmer. The marble floor reflected the low light, and the music faded to a distant thump, replaced by the sound of their footsteps and the rush of blood in her ears. A row of closed doors lined the walls—hotel rooms, maybe, or private suites—and at the end of the hall, a door to a private terrace stood ajar, the city lights spilling in like spilled gold.

He stopped. She stopped with him, because she didn't know what else to do. His hand was still on her hip, his thumb resting in the hollow of her waist, and when he turned her to face him, she let him.

The hallway was empty. Private. The closed doors behind them, the open terrace ahead, and Pete Bianchi standing so close she could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, the faint scar at his jaw, the way his mouth softened when he looked at her.

His free hand came up. She watched it rise, watched it cross the space between them, watched it find the thin strap of her dress where it lay against her shoulder. His fingers traced the edge of it, a slow, deliberate movement that raised goosebumps across her skin.

"You cold?"

She heard the question. Heard what he was really saying. Heard the challenge in it, the knowledge that she wasn't cold at all, that her body was responding to something else entirely.

"No." Her voice came out steady. Surprising her.

His thumb traced the strap down toward her collarbone, following the line of it, the silk shifting under his touch. "Then what are you?"

The question hung between them, weightier than it should have been. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her wrists, in the place where his hand still rested against her hip. She could feel the heat of him through the inches that separated their bodies, could feel the shape of his chest, the strength in his shoulders, the patience in the way he waited for her answer.

"I don't know," she said. And it was true. She didn't know what she was right now—nervous, excited, frightened, alive. All of it. None of it. A feeling that didn't have a name, that only existed in the space between his eyes and hers.

"That's honest." His fingers left her strap, traced up the column of her throat, light enough to tickle, heavy enough to make her breath catch. "I like that."

"You don't know me."

"I know enough." His hand settled at the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, a possessive weight that made her knees feel weak. "I know you're eighteen. I know you've been modeling since high school. I know you live in a walk-up in Brooklyn with a roommate who works nights, and I know you've never been looked at the way I'm looking at you right now."

The words hit her like a physical blow. "You had me investigated."

"I had you learn." Simple. Unapologetic. "There's a difference."

She should pull away. She knew she should pull away. Every instinct that had kept her safe for eighteen years was screaming at her to step back, to find the exit, to disappear into the crowd and never look back. But his hand was warm against her neck, and his gray eyes held hers, and somewhere beneath the fear was a feeling she didn't want to name.

"Why?" The word came out smaller than she intended. "Why me?"

He considered the question. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, a slow, thoughtful movement. "You really don't know, do you?"

"I wouldn't ask if I did."

Something crossed his face. Not softness—Pete Bianchi didn't look soft—but something that approached it. A crack in the granite. A glimpse of the man beneath the monster. "Because you walked out there as you belonged. Like the lights were there for you, not the other way around. And when you saw me, you didn't look away."

"I looked away."

"Eventually." His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "But not fast enough. You looked at me, Tisha. And you stayed."

She didn't have an answer for that. Because he was right. She had stayed. She was staying now, when every sane instinct told her to run. She was standing in a private hallway with a man who'd had her investigated, whose hand was in her hair, whose eyes were the color of winter and just as cold, and she wasn't running.

"The terrace," she said. "You said air."

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then his hand slid from her neck, down her shoulder, down her arm, until his fingers found hers. He didn't hold her hand—he wrapped his around it, his palm engulfing hers, his scarred knuckles pressing against her soft skin.

"After you." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the terrace door with his free hand. But he didn't let go of her fingers. He led her forward instead, pulling her gently toward the light.

The door opened onto a wide terrace, the city sprawling beneath them like a circuit board of light and shadow. The sounds of the party faded to a distant hum, replaced by the rush of wind and the low thrum of traffic from streets below. The air was cool against her skin, raising goosebumps across her bare arms, and she stepped to the railing without thinking, drawn by the view.

Manhattan glittered below them. Skyscrapers rose like glass monuments, their windows lit in patterns she couldn't read, and somewhere in all that light were a million lives being lived, a million stories being written. She was eighteen years old, standing on a terrace at the Ritz, holding hands with a man who might be a monster, and she had never felt more alive.

"It's beautiful." Her voice was quiet, almost lost to the wind.

He came up behind her. She felt him before she saw him—the heat of his chest at her back, the broad shape of his shoulders blocking the wind, the scent of his cologne rising around her like a cage made of silk. His hands found the railing on either side of her, boxing her in, and his mouth came close to her ear.

"Not as beautiful as you."

The line should have been corny. Should have made her roll her eyes. But the way he said it—low and rough, like the words cost him something—made her stomach flip. She gripped the railing, the cold metal biting into her palms, and she felt his chest press against her back as he leaned in.

"Tell me to stop." His voice was a rumble against her ear. "Tell me to walk away, and I will."

She knew it was a lie. Or maybe she didn't know—maybe it was the truth, maybe he would actually stop if she asked him to. But she couldn't find the words. Couldn't find the part of herself that wanted him to stop. The part that wanted him to keep going was louder, was hungrier, was drowning out every warning bell her mind was ringing.

"I thought so." His hand left the railing, found her chin, turned her face toward his. "Look at me."

She did. His gray eyes caught the city lights, the glitter of a million windows reflected in his irises, and she saw herself in them—small, breathless, entirely his.

"I'm going to kiss you now." Not a question. A statement. An inevitability. "And you're going to kiss me back."

He didn't wait for permission. His mouth found hers, and she felt the claim of it in her bones—the pressure, the heat, the hunger he'd been holding back all night. His hand tightened on her jaw, tilting her head back, and his other hand found her waist and pulled her hard against him, the railing pressing into her hips, the city spread out beneath them like an audience.

She kissed him back. She couldn't help it. Her body moved before her mind could catch up, her hands finding his chest, his shoulders, the lapels of his jacket. She gripped the fabric and pulled him closer, and he made a sound low in his throat—satisfaction, hunger, triumph—that vibrated through her lips and made her knees buckle.

His tongue found hers, and she tasted whiskey and something darker, something that made her feel dizzy and safe and terrified all at once. His hand slid from her jaw down her throat, fingers spreading across her pulse point, feeling the race of her heart against his palm.

"You have no idea," he breathed against her mouth, "how long I've wanted to do that."

"It's been one night."

"Longest night of my life." He kissed her again, harder this time, his teeth catching her lower lip before his tongue soothed the sting. "And I'm not done with you yet."