The Betrayed Wife's Darkest Alliance

The third martini had been a mistake.

Elena sat on a velvet stool, the room swaying gently like a ship on calm waters. The sharp edges of her reality had blurred. Julian's face, Quinn's smirk, the slammed door-they were all fuzzy now, wrapped in a cotton wool of gin and vermouth.

Sierra pried the glass from Elena's fingers. "That's enough. You're not going back to the townhouse tonight. I won't let you."

Elena shook her head, a loose, sloppy motion. "Can't go home. He changed the locks... probably. Or the Wi-Fi password. He changes everything."

"I got you a room," Sierra said, her voice firm. She pressed a plastic keycard into Elena's palm. "Here. It's the Penthouse Suite. Only thing they had left. I put it on my card. I'm going to run to my car and grab your overnight bag-I always keep one for you. You go up. Wait for me."

"Penthouse," Elena repeated, staring at the card. It was black with gold lettering. "Fancy."

"Go," Sierra guided her toward the elevators. "Don't talk to anyone."

Elena stumbled into the elevator. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal wall, closing her eyes. The ascent made her stomach turn. Gravity felt like a suggestion rather than a law.

Ding. Top floor.

She stepped out. The hallway was dimly lit, elegant. There were two doors. Penthouse A and Penthouse B.

She looked at the keycard in her hand. The numbers were swimming. Was it an A or a B? It looked like an A. Definitely an A.

She walked to the door on the left-Penthouse A. She swiped the card. The light on the lock blinked red.

"Stupid thing," she muttered, swiping again. Red.

She leaned her weight against the door in frustration, and to her surprise, it gave way. A heavy room service trolley had been vacated just inside the foyer, its rubber bumper preventing the thick door from clicking fully into the latch.

"Ha," she whispered triumphantly. "Open sesame."

She stumbled inside. The room was pitch black. Heavy blackout curtains were drawn, shutting out the city. The air conditioning was cranked down low, biting at her exposed skin. It smelled... distinct. Not like a hotel room. It smelled of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and something muskier, darker.

She didn't care. She just needed horizontal surface.

She kicked off her heels, wincing as she peeled them from her battered feet, and left them where they fell. She navigated by touch, her hands finding the edge of a massive king-sized bed. The sheets were silk, cool to the touch.

"Sierra can sleep on the couch," she mumbled, crawling onto the mattress.

She collapsed face-first into the pillows. She let out a long, shuddering sigh. The bed was warm. Strangely warm.

She shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. Her hand slid under the pillow and brushed against something.

It wasn't a pillow. It was warm. It was hard. It felt like... skin.

Before her brain could process the sensory input, the "pillow" moved.

A hand-large, calloused, and terrifyingly strong-shot out of the darkness and clamped around her wrist.

"Who is there?"

The voice was a low growl, vibrating with sleep and menace. It wasn't Sierra. It wasn't Julian. It was the voice of a large animal woken in its den.

Elena screamed. She tried to yank her hand back, but the grip was iron.

"Let go!" she shrieked, kicking out blindly.

The man moved with terrifying speed. In one fluid motion, he flipped her over, pinning her to the mattress. His weight was crushing. She was trapped between the silk sheets and a wall of solid muscle.

"Get off me!" she cried, panic cutting through the alcohol haze. "This is my room! Get out!"

"Your room?" The man's voice was dark with amusement and anger. "Look where you are."

He reached out with his free hand. Click.

The bedside lamp flooded the room with blinding golden light.

Elena squeezed her eyes shut against the glare. "I'm calling the police!"

"Open your eyes, Elena."

The voice. She knew that voice. It was a voice that commanded boardrooms and silenced shareholders. A voice that Julian feared.

She opened her eyes, blinking rapidly as her vision adjusted.

Hovering above her, his face inches from hers, was a man carved from marble and ice. Sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes the color of a stormy ocean. His dark hair was mussed from sleep, and his chest-bare, broad, and covered in a light dusting of hair-heaved slightly against hers.

Her breath hitched in her throat. Her heart stopped.

It was Sebastian Sterling.

Julian's uncle. The CEO of Sterling Corp. The man known on Wall Street as "The Reaper."

And she was currently pinned beneath him in his bed.