I stood outside Oliver's office, my heart beating a little too fast for my liking. The door loomed in front of me, dark wood polished to a sheen, reminding me of how out of place I still felt in this world. But this was my chance to prove something, not just to Oliver, but to myself. I was ready. At least, I told myself I was.
When I finally stepped inside, Oliver was already behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with that unreadable look on his face. His gaze glanced over me for a moment, assessing, before he gestured for me to take a seat. The room felt different from the last time I'd been here—less intimate, more businesslike.
"So?" I said, trying to sound casual
Oliver smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He reached into a drawer, pulling out a stack of envelopes and placing them on the desk in front of me. "Today, you're going to get your hands dirty."
My stomach twisted at his words. I reached for the envelopes, my fingers brushing the smooth paper. Each one was marked with a name, and it didn't take long for me to realize what these were. Termination notices.
"You'll be delivering these," Oliver continued, his voice calm but carrying that undertone of control that made it clear this was no simple task. "A few employees in the Vault have outlived their usefulness. They've grown complacent, sloppy. You'll find them scattered throughout the place. I need you to hand these to them, they'll know what it means."
"Firing people?" I asked, keeping my voice steady, though I was already starting to feel the pressure.
Oliver nodded, leaning forward slightly. He paused, fingers drumming lightly on the desk, his expression hardening. "We're all dealing with too much right now. Between briefing the new guys and keeping the Vault running, neither I, Aspen, nor Marge have the time to handle the racket that comes with terminating these people ourselves. That's where you come in."
I stared at the envelopes again, feeling the gravity of what he was asking. Oliver was watching to see if I could assert control in a world that wasn't mine, a world where people already questioned my place.
I straightened into my chair. "And if they don't take it well?"
His smile widened, just a little. "They'll push back. They'll try to undermine your authority. Your job is to make sure they know it's non-negotiable."
I glanced up at him, searching his face for any sign that he was concerned about how this might go. But, of course, there was nothing. Oliver was always in control, always one step ahead.
"Consider this your chance to prove yourself," he added, leaning back in his chair once more, his eyes still on me. "You said you wanted to make something of yourself here. This is the first step."
"I'll get it done."
He gave me a small nod, but his eyes held that sharp, assessing glint. "I'm sure you will."
A sense of familiarity crept over me, tugging at old memories I'd tried to leave behind. It was the same feeling I had when I was working for Stag, running messages back and forth, delivering threats disguised as favors. I'd been nothing more than a pawn then—a girl trying to stay afloat in a world that constantly pushed me under. And now, here I was, feeling the same pull, the same damn sense of being a messenger girl again. I didn't like it.
I stopped just outside Oliver's office, taking a deep breath. For a moment, I was back on the streets, Stag's sneering
face looming over me as he handed me a bundle of cash or a note with someone's name on it. The same line every time: "Get it done and we won't have problems." It wasn't a request; it was an order wrapped in false kindness. He didn't give a damn about me, only that I followed his instructions to keep his empire running smoothly.
"And isn't that what this is?" I asked myself, my fingers tightening around the envelopes. Was this really my chance to prove myself, or was I just another cog in Oliver's well-oiled machine? Was I being set up to fail? Or worse, was I being used to do the dirty work he didn't have the time or patience for? Just like Stag.
I hesitated, standing there in the doorway, the question burning at the tip of my tongue. How the hell was I supposed to deliver these if I didn't even know who the hell I was delivering them to? The Vault was a maze of faces and secrets, and I'd barely scratched the surface of who was who. I knew the big names—Marge, Aspen, Vigo, a few others who were impossible to ignore—but beyond that? I didn't know who worked for Oliver, let alone who was on his chopping block.
I turned back to him, swallowing the frustration that was already building in my chest. "Oliver," I started carefully, my voice measured. "How exactly am I supposed to find these people? I don't know who anyone is."
He didn't look up from the papers he was already skimming through, his focus elsewhere, like my question was an afterthought. His fingers drummed lightly on the desk, and after a pause that stretched a little too long, he finally spoke, his tone almost dismissive.
"Use your resources."
That was it. No explanation. No details. Just a vague command, like I was supposed to already know how to make this happen.
He looked up briefly, catching my expression with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Farrah might serve you some good," he added, a sly hint creeping into his voice, "since you seem to enjoy playing around with her in the Vault so much."
The words stung a bit, like a veiled reprimand, but I couldn't tell if he was just being sarcastic or genuinely irritated. His sharpness, the way his tone shifted—something was off with him today. Maybe he was stressed, or maybe this task wasn't as simple as he made it sound. Either way, I wasn't going to get any more help from him.
"I'll figure it out," I muttered, more to myself than to him.
Just as I reached the door, his voice cut through the air, cold but firm. "Be back by 7 p.m."
Farrah. Of course. She was always in the thick of things, always poking her nose into the Vault's underbelly. If anyone could point me in the right direction, it'd be her. But the idea of having to rely on someone else made my stomach twist. I hated not knowing how to navigate this on my own, hated feeling like I was back to being someone's errand girl, dependent on others to get by.
But Oliver's words replayed in my head—use your resources. He wasn't wrong. Farrah had her own set of skills, her own way of getting around in the Vault that I didn't have yet. If I wanted to make this work, I'd have to swallow my pride and let her help.
I took a deep breath and headed toward the common areas of the Vault, where I knew she'd likely be lurking, playing her little games with whoever was unlucky enough to cross her path.
I made my way through the winding halls of the Vault, keeping an eye out for her, but she was nowhere to be found. The place was teeming with faces. People bustling between deals, secretive glances exchanged in corners, but none of them were her. Farrah had a way of standing out—bright, loud, and cocky.
After a while, I gave up trying to spot her in the sea of shady characters. The clock in my head was ticking, and my frustration wasn't doing me any favors. I reached into my bag and pulled out the flip phone Farrah had given me, thumbing through it until I found her number.
It rang a few times before I heard the click of her picking up. "What's up?" Her voice was casual, almost playful, like she didn't have a care in the world.
"I need your help," I said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Where are you?"
She hesitated for a moment. "What kind of help? And don't tell me it's about that Oliver shit."
I sighed, already knowing this was going to be a pain. "Yeah, it's about Oliver. He's given me some notices to deliver, and I need to find a few people. I have no idea who they are."
There was a pause at the other end before she finally spoke again. "Alright, meet me by the soup lady."
Without wasting any more time, I made my way back to the small corner of the Vault where the old woman served her curry soup. I could already smell the familiar spices as I approached. Farrah was leaning against the wall near the stall, a bowl of soup in hand.
When she saw me, she waved me over with a smirk. "You really do owe me one for this, you know."
I rolled my eyes, but there was no time to argue. "I've got a list of people I need to find," I said, pulling the envelopes from my bag and showing her the names scrawled on them. "Can you help?"
Farrah glanced at the names, her smirk fading slightly. Her casual bravado shifted, replaced by something else. She ran a hand through her messy hair, looking a little more serious than usual. "Shit… these aren't exactly the friendliest fuckers you're dealing with. You sure you're ready to play messenger for your boyfriend?"
I rolled my eyes, shooting back with a playful grin, "He's not my boyfriend, Farrah." I hesitated for a beat before adding, with a teasing lilt, "Though… I wouldn't mind if he was."
Farrah let out a girlish chuckle, nudging me lightly with her elbow. "Oh, I see how it is. You got a thing for the mysterious type, huh?"
I laughed, shaking my head. "What can I say? I guess I'm into older men."
Farrah burst into laughter, doubling over slightly as she grinned at me. "Don't let him hear you say that, though, or you'll never live it down. That man never forgets anything—like ever. And you know he's damn proud of how good he looks for his age. He's probably got it written on a sticky note somewhere just to remind himself." She scrunched her nose, her expression shifting into mock disgust. "It's the cocky demeanor for me. Total ick."
I laughed harder, covering my mouth to muffle the sound. "He is a bit… confident, I'll give you that."
Farrah rolled her eyes dramatically. "A bit? That man probably practices his smirk in the mirror every morning. I can't believe you're into that."
"Hey," I shot back, bumping her arm with my elbow. "Confidence is attractive, in case you haven't heard."
"Yeah, until it turns into a full-blown ego parade," Farrah quipped, shaking her head with a grin. "You're braver than me, I'll give you that."
I laughed, shaking my head at Farrah's over-the-top disgust. "You're too young to understand," I teased, waving her off like an older sister trying to impart wisdom.
Farrah gasped, clutching her chest. "Too young? Excuse me, ma'am, I've seen enough bullshit in this Vault to qualify me as wise beyond my years. Don't act like you're the queen of experience, Miss 'Oliver's Number One Fan.'"
I smirked, leaning back against the wall. "Oh, I didn't say I was the queen of experience. Just that you don't get it yet."
Farrah groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "I'm gonna start calling you Mrs. Oliver if this keeps up."
"Don't you dare," I warned, pointing a finger at her, though I couldn't help but laugh again.
Farrah grinned wickedly. "Oh, it's happening. Mark my words." She sighed, her eyes scanning the names again on the envelopes. "Most of these guys… they're rough. They work between the streets and the Vault, handling the dirty stuff, you know? Drugs, weapons, other shit like that."
She met my eyes, her usual cockiness gone, replaced by genuine concern. "I'm not saying you can't handle yourself, but… these guys? They don't like surprises, and they sure as hell won't like being told they're out of a job."
"Do you know where to find them?" I asked, keeping my voice steady even though my stomach was twisting.
Farrah nodded, though she didn't look thrilled about it. "Yeah, I know where they hang out. But you've gotta be careful. Some of these guys aren't the kind of guys you want to piss off. Deliver your message, get the hell out. Don't stick around for a chat."
"Got it," I said, my voice firmer than I felt. "Let's get this over with."
Farrah led the way, weaving through the winding passages of the Vault. As we moved deeper into the maze, the atmosphere changed. The halls here were darker, the faces rougher, and the tension in the air was heavy. This was a part of the Vault I hadn't seen before—where the real deals went down, where the desperation and violence lived just beneath the surface.
We turned a corner, and Farrah stopped, glancing back at me. "Alright, first guy on your list—Tommy. He's a runner. Deals in drugs mostly, moves product from the Vault to the streets."
I nodded and took a steadying breath. "Where is he?" I asked.
Farrah motioned toward a door a few steps away. "Right through there. He's usually in the backroom." Without hesitating, I gripped the envelope tightly and stepped forward, pushing the door open.
The door creaked as I stepped into Tommy's lair. The smell hit me first—sweat, smoke, and something sharper, like the metallic tang of stale blood. A dim light flickered above. Tommy sat behind a cluttered desk, feet kicked up on it like he owned the place, which, in this corner of the Vault, he might have. Two girls were draped over him, barely dressed, their eyes dull and glazed. They didn't even flinch when I walked in.
His eyes glanced up at me, narrowing with suspicion, and a grin split his face. "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" His voice was low, oozing sleaze.
"Out," he snapped, directing the word toward the two girls. They blinked as if coming out of a trance, then slunk off his lap and hurried out of the room without a word, brushing past me like shadows.
Tommy clicked his tongue, disappointment dripping from the sound. "You must be fun at parties."
I ignored the snide remark, my hand tightening around the envelope as I stepped closer to his desk. "I'm here doing some work for Oliver."
He let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Oliver? Oh, well, isn't that cute. He couldn't be bothered to do his own work today? Had to send someone new to run his little errands?"
His words cut deeper than I wanted to admit. I had come in trying to put on a strong front, but his immediate dismissal of me made my skin fume with anger. The worst part? He wasn't wrong. I was here to do Oliver's dirty work. And just like before, like with Stag on the streets, I felt like a messenger girl. A pawn.
"Who the hell are you, anyway?" Tommy asked, leaning forward now, his feet dropping to the floor with a thud. "Never seen you around, and now you're standing in my office, telling me you're delivering news from the big man himself?" He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair again like he had all the time in the world to mess with me.
My jaw clenched.
I tossed the envelope onto his desk, the sound of paper hitting wood sharper than I'd intended. The grin on Tommy's face vanished, replaced by a slow, simmering anger. His eyes darkened, and the tension in the room thickened like smoke.
He picked up the envelope, opening it slowly. "You think this piece of paper means anything to me? You think you mean anything to me?" He spat the words, crumpling the envelope in his hand. "You're nobody. If Oliver wanted to get rid of me, he should've come down here himself instead of sending his new little lapdog."
My pulse quickened, my anger flaring hotter. Lapdog. That word echoed in my head, the same feeling of inadequacy creeping up my spine, twisting itself into a knot in my gut. Tommy's dismissal, his mockery—it was everything I hated, and yet it felt too familiar.
I stood there, frozen for a second longer than I should've been, before my stubbornness kicked in. "If you've got a problem," I said, my voice tight, "take it up with Oliver. Otherwise, get the fuck over it."
I turned sharply on my heel before he could say another word, my heart hammering in my chest as I pushed open the door and hurried out. The moment I stepped back into the hallway, I could breathe again, but the frustration still gnawed at me.
Tommy's mocking laughter followed me as the door shut behind me, and I had to swallow down the surge of anger that threatened to rise again. I hadn't shown it in front of him, but he'd gotten under my skin. I hated that feeling
—the same old gnawing sense of being nothing more than a cog in someone else's machine.
Farrah waited just around the corner, her eyes alight with curiosity and a flicker of concern. "So? How'd it go?" she asked.
I shrugged, doing my best to act like it was nothing. "He wasn't thrilled, but it's handled."
She raised an eyebrow, eyeing me like she wasn't convinced. "Tommy's not the kind of guy who lets things go easily, you know. Be careful. He might come looking for revenge."
I brushed her concern aside. "Let him try."
But even as I said the words, doubt settled in the back of my mind. Did Oliver have my back? Or was he just using me, like everyone else before him?
Farrah sighed and started walking, motioning for me to follow. "Alright, let's get to the next one. But you better be on your guard. These guys don't like getting kicked out of the Vault. And they sure as hell won't take it lightly coming from someone like you."
"Someone like me," I muttered under my breath as we made our way down the corridor. The bitterness was hard to hide, but I swallowed it down. I didn't have time for self-pity. I had a job to do, and no matter how much it made me feel like the old me—like the girl who used to run errands for Stag—I wasn't going to let it break me.
I wasn't that girl anymore.
Farrah led me deeper into the Vault, the tension thickening with each step. The next few terminations went smoother than I expected. Most of the guys were either too drugged out or too apathetic to care about the notice I was handing them. Their eyes glazed over as they took the envelope, some even laughed as if it was all part of the game they'd been playing for years. One of them, a skinny guy with dark circles under his eyes and scabs on his arms, just muttered, "Whatever," before tossing the envelope aside and slumping back into his chair.
It was almost too easy. But that didn't make it any less frustrating.
Each time I handed out one of those envelopes, a nagging thought crept into my mind: Aspen hired these guys? The more I saw of them, the more I couldn't help but wonder what kind of operation she was running here. These were people who barely seemed fit to tie their own shoes, let alone work for Oliver.
I wasn't naive—I knew the Vault wasn't filled with model citizens, but the level of neglect in these guys was startling. Drug addicts, low-level runners, people who wouldn't last a day on the streets without someone like Oliver backing them. How had Aspen let it get to this point? If she was supposed to be overseeing this part of the operation, what the hell was she even doing?
The frustration simmered inside me, mixing with a flicker of jealousy I couldn't quite shake. Aspen—her name alone sent a sharp twist through my gut. She had this lofty position with Oliver, always in his orbit, always in control of something. But was she really in control? Or was she just letting things rot under her watch while she played the queen in her little corner of the Vault?
I knew better runners and dealers back on the streets. People who knew how to keep their shit together, who didn't let themselves fall apart the way these guys had. If Aspen had picked these people to work in the Vault, she clearly didn't care about how things were run. Either that, or she was just lazy.
But then again, maybe it wasn't just laziness. Maybe it was about control. Keeping people like this around—people who wouldn't challenge her, who wouldn't question her authority—it made sense. Aspen wasn't stupid. She knew how to play the game, and maybe this was part of her strategy. Keep people beneath you, people who needed you, and you'd always stay on top.
The thought made my stomach churn. It was too close to the kind of manipulation I'd seen on the streets. Control wasn't about brute force; it was about dependency. And Aspen had created a little kingdom of the weak and the desperate.
Once the last of the termination notices had been handed out, I felt a strange mix of relief and exhaustion wash over me. The job was done, but the weight of what I'd just done hung in the back of my mind. A small part of me wanted to care about the people I'd just cut off, but most of them had already been hanging by a thread. Their apathy, their addiction—it was like they were already dead inside, and my notice was just the final nail in the coffin.
Farrah had stuck with me the whole time, keeping a watchful eye as I navigated the darker corners of the Vault. She was a constant presence, offering me glances of reassurance, but I could tell by the way her eyes shifted nervously that she knew the kind of mess I was walking into.
"Thanks," I said, pulling a few Percocet from my pocket and handing them to her. Her eyes lit up at the sight of them, but it wasn't just the pills that I was about to offer her. I hesitated for a moment, then pulled out one of the Nebula tablets I still had stashed away. I had my reasons for holding onto them, but Farrah had been useful today, and something told me keeping her in my good graces might be worth it. "Here," I added, handing over one of the Nebula tabs. "Consider it a bonus."
Farrah's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she quickly pocketed the pills, her casual smirk returning. "Damn, Lux. You sure know how to sweeten a deal. You ever need a hand again, you know where to find me."
She hugged me tightly for a moment before slipping into the shadows of the Vault's winding hallways, already disappearing from view. The weight of what I'd just given her lingered on my mind, but I brushed it off. It didn't matter. Not today.
I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering tension in my muscles.
Oliver was already behind his desk, leaning back in his chair like he always did, that same unreadable look on his face. He glanced at me as I stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over me like he was sizing me up again.
"So?" I asked, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "It's done."
Oliver didn't smile. He just nodded, his fingers steepled in front of him. "Good. And how did it go?"
I shrugged, feeling the weight of the day press down on me. "Most of them didn't care. Others…" I trailed off, thinking of Tommy's sneer, the way he'd crumpled the envelope in his hand. "Let's just say they didn't take it well."
He raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't expect them to."
He didn't say anything for a moment, just watched me, his eyes sharp and calculating. Then, as if satisfied, he leaned back in his chair again. "Good work. You're dismissed."
I blinked, surprised by the sudden dismissal. I'd expected more—maybe some praise, some acknowledgment that I'd done well. But then again, this was Oliver. He wasn't the type to give out praise easily.
I nodded, turning to leave, but stopped just before the door. "One more thing," I said, glancing back at him. "These people… the ones I delivered the notices to—they were addicts, most of them. Hardly in any shape to work."
Oliver's expression didn't change, but I could see a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe. "And?"
"And," I pressed, "if Aspen's in charge of recruiting, maybe she should be paying a little more attention to the kind of people she's bringing in."
There was a pause, a tense silence hanging in the air between us. Then he sighed, almost like he was tired of the conversation already. "Aspen has her methods."
"Her methods don't seem to be working," I said, the frustration bubbling up again. "These guys weren't just sloppy
—they were a liability. I've seen better guys on the streets."
Oliver's gaze sharpened, locking onto mine with a cold intensity that made my stomach twist. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, hands still steepled, and his voice dropped low, cutting through the tension like a blade. "A liability, you say?" he repeated slowly, as if savoring the word. "Funny you should mention that."
Something in his tone sent a warning flashing in the back of my mind, but I didn't look away.
Oliver's fingers tapped lightly against each other, a slow, deliberate rhythm. "You want to talk about liabilities?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm. "Let's not forget that your last run of errands was a Nebula-fueled mess. You think I don't know how badly you almost botched things because you were too high to see straight?"
The accusation hit me like a punch to the gut. My skin flushed with shame, and I clenched my fists, trying to suppress the defensive response rising in me. He was right, of course. The last time I'd run tasks for him, I'd been riding the high of Nebula, barely holding it together. I thought I'd hidden it well, but clearly, Oliver hadn't missed a thing.
He leaned back again, his eyes never leaving mine. "Aspen's been with me for a long time. She's earned her place here, and yes, she's got her own ways of handling things. Maybe her guys aren't perfect, but I don't have time to hand-select every recruit that passes through the Vault. That's why I delegate. I have to rely on people I to get the job done."
The words felt like a subtle jab, reminding me that trust was something I hadn't fully earned yet. He paused, letting the silence settle between us like a weight, before continuing. "Aspen's methods may not be perfect, but they've kept things running, and that's what matters. She knows how this place works—what keeps it together and what tears it apart. You, on the other hand…" His voice trailed off, his expression unreadable for a moment before he finished, "…you're still finding your way."
I gritted my teeth, the sting of his words sinking deep. My earlier frustration flared again, but now it was mixed with something else—humiliation. He wasn't wrong, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow.
"Look," I said, trying to steady my voice, "I get that I've got a lot to prove. But I'm not just some addict who can't handle herself. I got those terminations done, didn't I?"
Oliver's gaze softened just a fraction, but the cold calculation never left his eyes. "You did," he conceded. "But don't think for a second that makes you indispensable. One mistake, one slip-up, and you'll find yourself right back where you started—in the Isles, working your debt off with the others."
The warning hung in the air between us like a threat. I held his gaze, refusing to let him see the way my insides were twisting with anger and fear. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"I'm not going back to that," I said quietly, my voice steady, but my heart raced in my chest.
He rose from his chair, moving around the desk with that effortless grace that always made me feel like he was ten steps ahead, like every move he made was part of some larger game I couldn't see. He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head up slightly to meet his gaze.
His lips curled into a smirk, but it wasn't friendly. It was calculating, the same way a predator watches prey before making its move. "You're not going back to that life, huh?" he said softly, almost mockingly. He took a step closer, his body just inches from mine now. I could feel the heat radiating off him, his presence overwhelming, suffocating, but in a way that stirred something primal inside me.
He liked the way I pushed back. I knew that now. And as much as I hated to admit it, there was a part of me that liked pushing him, too. But this was a dangerous game we were playing, and I wasn't sure how far I could go before I crossed a line I couldn't come back from.
"No. I'm not."
His gaze roamed over my face, lingering for a moment too long on my lips before sliding back up to meet my eyes. That subtle ignition of heat was there, something more than just the typical power play. The space between us felt charged, like we were standing on the edge of something dangerous, and neither of us was willing to step back.
"You're stubborn," he whispered, his voice low. "I'll give you that."
I wasn't sure if it was meant to be a compliment or a warning. Maybe both.
But then, something changed in his expression. His jaw tightened, and his hands flexed at his sides, as if he was barely holding something back. Frustration, maybe. Or desire. Or both. The air between us practically sizzled with it, and before I could even blink, he moved.
His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist, pulling me against him so fast I barely had time to react. His mouth crashed down on mine, rough and forceful, and all the pent-up tension between us exploded in that instant. There was no tenderness, no hesitation—just raw, undeniable need. I could feel his frustration in the way his lips pressed against mine, in the way his hands gripped me with a fierceness that bordered on desperation.
A small gasp escaped my throat, but I didn't pull away. I kissed him back just as fiercely, matching his intensity with my own. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, to taste him. The heat between us was intoxicating, and for a moment, all the anger, the fear, the power struggles—they disappeared.
His hands slid to my waist, and without breaking the kiss, he lifted me up and around, onto his desk, pushing aside the stack of papers with a careless sweep. The sound of scattered papers hit the floor, but neither of us cared. His mouth moved against mine, rough, insistent, like he was taking out every ounce of frustration from the day— hell, maybe from the entire Vault—on me. And I let him. I wanted him to.
The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against mine, tasting me with a possessive hunger that sent a rush of heat straight to my core. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hardness of his body against mine. His hands gripped my thighs, fingers digging into my skin through the fabric of my pants, as if he needed to anchor himself, as if letting go would break whatever spell we were under.
But I could feel it too. This wasn't about romance or affection. This was about control. This was about dominance, about releasing whatever tension had been simmering between us. And maybe it was just about using each other. For him, I was a way to vent, to let go of the pressures of the Vault, of his role, of everything he held back. For me, he was power. Power I wanted to claim, to taste, to drown in, even if just for a moment.
I could feel the rough edge in his touch, the way he handled me—not gently, but with purpose. As if he was taking what he needed, and I was more than willing to give it to him. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling my head back slightly, exposing my neck as his lips trailed down, biting, teasing, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
A moan slipped from my lips before I could stop it, and I hated how much I wanted this, how much I wanted him. But that didn't matter now. Nothing mattered except the way his hands felt on my body, the way his mouth claimed mine like he owned me.
His teeth grazed my collarbone, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark, a reminder of this moment, of him.
I arched into him, my hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the hard lines of muscle, the heat of his skin. He growled low in his throat at the contact, his fingers tightening their grip on me, and for a second, I wondered if we were going to go even further, right here, on his desk, with nothing but the dim light of the office casting shadows around us.
But then he pulled back, breathing hard, his lips swollen from the kiss, his eyes dark and clouded with a mix of emotions I couldn't quite read. Frustration. Lust. Anger.
His hand lingered on my thigh, his grip loosening but still firm, as if he wasn't quite ready to let go yet. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a second, the cold mask he always wore slipped just enough for me to see something real—something raw—beneath the surface.
But just as quickly, it was gone.
He let out a slow breath, stepping back slightly, the heat between us dissipating as he regained control.
Oliver's gaze met mine, his expression once again unreadable. "Get out," he said softly, the command laced with that familiar edge of control.