The answer came too quickly.

Claire looked up.

He hadn't taken his eyes off her once.

Something electric moved low through her stomach.

This is a mistake, she thought immediately.

A beautiful one.

The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent.

The penthouse was minimalist, expensive, and cold. Huge windows offered a panoramic view of the storm-lashed city, but there were no photos, no clutter, no signs of a life lived for pleasure.

Claire stepped into the penthouse slowly, heels dangling from one hand while rainwater still clung faintly to the hem of her dress. 

"Alright," she said softly, turning in a slow circle beneath the low amber lighting, "this is either billionaire wealth or serial killer wealth. Honestly I can't tell."

Behind her, Killian removed his coat with measured calm and draped it over the back of a chair.

"There's no difference."

Claire laughed quietly before she could stop herself.

Years of psychology classes and carefully observing people instead of trusting them had made emotional microexpressions impossible to ignore.

And Killian Virel was full of contradictions.

Everything about him projected control. The penthouse looked architecturally perfect in the same severe way he did—dark stone, steel, glass, sharp edges softened only by warm indirect lighting and the muted glow of the storm outside. Nothing sat out unnecessarily. Nothing looked touched emotionally.

Then she noticed the bookshelves lining the far wall.

Actual books. Hundreds of them.

Literature. History. Philosophy. Psychology.

Claire paused in front of one shelf, surprised enough to forget caution briefly.

"You have The Secret History?"

Killian had moved closer without her noticing.

"I do."

"That's impressive."

His gaze lingered on her profile while she scanned the shelves. "Why?"

"Because men who look like you usually pretend they only read biographies written by former presidents."

The corner of his mouth shifted faintly.

Again—that almost-smile. Brief enough that she could've imagined it if she weren't staring directly at him.

Most men performed charm loudly. They leaned into attraction. Filled silence quickly. Wanted reactions.

Killian watched instead.

Claire set her heels down near the windows and wandered farther into the penthouse, trying unsuccessfully to regulate the strange nervous energy building beneath her skin. The alcohol buzz had faded into something sharper now, heightened by awareness rather than drunkenness.

Killian crossed the room slowly after that, each movement controlled with almost unnatural precision. Claire should have stepped back when he stopped in front of her. Instead she stayed still, trapped somewhere between caution and curiosity.

Up close, he smelled like rain and cedarwood and something darker beneath both she couldn't name properly.

His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her gaze.

Claire folded her arms loosely, mostly to keep herself from touching him first. "You keep looking at me like you're trying to solve a problem."

A long pause settled between them.

Then, very quietly: "Maybe I am."

The honesty in his voice slid warm beneath her ribs before common sense could intervene.

She tilted her head slightly and asked, "And have you figured it out yet?"

Killian's gaze held hers so steadily it almost felt physical.

"No."

His hand lifted then placed against her chest, right above her heart.

His hand was massive, his skin burning hot compared to her chilled frame.

"Are you afraid?"

Claire didn't look away. "I study psychology," she whispered, almost against her own will, "I know what I want."

Killian's thumb traced the line of her throat, his touch so light it was almost agonizing. 

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling her scent—rain, vanilla, and the sharp tang of gin.

He swept her up into his arms, his strength effortless.

He carried her toward the bedroom, his stride long and certain.

The bed was vast, covered in charcoal silk that felt like water against her skin.

As he lowered himself over her, the sheer scale of him became apparent.

He was a predator, heavy and powerful, pinning her to the mattress with a gentleness that felt like a threat.

He kissed her then, and it wasn't the tentative kiss of a stranger.

It was a claim.

His mouth was hot, demanding, tasting of ancient needs and suppressed fire.

Claire wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to lose herself in the sheer intensity of him.

But even as the heat rose between them, she noticed the way he watched her.

He didn't close his eyes.

He watched every flicker of her expression, every gasp that left her lips.

He touched her with a terrifyingly deliberate focus, as if he were memorizing the map of her body.

"You should stop looking at me like that," she murmured.

"How am I looking at you?"

The question came low enough that it barely sounded like teasing.

Claire held his gaze for a dangerous second too long before answering.

"Like you fall in love with me."

He moved then, his body merging with hers in a rhythm that felt less like sex and more like a collision.

Claire felt the raw, jagged edges of his restraint fraying with every movement.

The way his fingers dug into her hips.

The way his breath hitched when she whispered his name.

It felt too fast. Too deep.

Rain hammered against the glass while lightning illuminated the skyline behind him in pale silver flashes. The city disappeared and returned in fragments around the shape of his body.

Hours later, as the storm outside began to fade into a dull grey drizzle, Killian lay beside her.

He stayed propped up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on her face as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

Claire watched him through hooded eyes, the psychology student in her screaming that this was an anomaly.

This reckless night...

The thrill hit hard enough to stir a quiet sense of regret in her.