His To Claim

"A threat"

There was no smile on his face, just calm calculation. But there was something else, too. Beneath the corporate menace beneath the tailored suit and strategic stillness something dangerous flickered.

Interest.

Desire.

She could use that.

“Then maybe you should have left me downstairs,” she said, brushing past him, fingers trailing the edge of a velvet curtain.

“I tried,” he said, his voice low and close. “But then you turned around in that dress, and I forgot every rule I made about unknown women.”

She turned. “I’m not unknown.”

“Not yet.”

He stepped closer. She didn’t back away.

Cassian’s eyes dipped, slowly, deliberately—past her mouth, down her throat, then up again. “Where are you from?”

“Nowhere you’d recognize.”

“What do you want?”

“To disappear.”

“Why are you lying?”

“Because it’s safer.”

The honesty was so stark, it stole the smirk from his lips. For the first time, he paused—not because he doubted her, but because she’d said it like a woman who’d had to.

He stared at her, and in that second, she wasn’t a con. She wasn’t a mark.

She was something else.

Zara stepped into his space, looking up at him.

“If you’re trying to intimidate me, Mr. Wolfe,” she said, “you’re going to have to do better than staring and brooding. I’ve been threatened by men with fewer resources and more imagination.”

Cassian exhaled a low, amused breath. “You really don’t scare easy, do you?”

“I used to.”

“What changed?”

“I died once.”

Cassian’s expression shifted. For the first time, she saw something like respect flicker in his eyes.

He reached out—slowly—and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers were warm. Callused. Too gentle for the way he looked at the world.

Zara didn’t move.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.

“I know.”

And then—

He kissed her.

Not with hesitation.

Not with sweetness.

With claiming.

His hand slid to the back of her neck as he pulled her against him, and the kiss landed like a match to oil. Zara’s fingers twisted in his shirt, anchoring herself to something she knew was going to ruin her.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative.

It was war.

And she didn’t pull away.

Not even when her mind screamed that this was dangerous.

Not even when his breath against her mouth growled, “Tell me to stop.”

Because she wouldn’t.

Because she didn’t want him to.

The door clicked behind her.

Zara stepped into the night air, her breath fogging faintly as the wind whipped through the high ledge of the rooftop. Her heels clicked against the stone. She didn’t stop walking until she hit the edge—gripping the cool railing like it might anchor her.

Her lips still tingled from the kiss.

She’d let him kiss her.

Worse, she’d kissed him back.

She pressed a hand to her mouth like she could erase it. Stupid. She wasn’t supposed to make mistakes like this. Not with men like him. Not on jobs this close to exposure.

Behind her, the rooftop door groaned open again.

She didn’t turn.

“Can’t handle five minutes alone?” she said flatly.

Cassian’s voice followed, steady and low. “You didn’t strike me as the type to run.”

“I didn’t. I walked.”

“You kissed me like someone who doesn’t walk away.”

“You kissed me like someone who thinks kissing fixes anything.”

Silence.

The wind tossed a strand of her hair across her cheek. Cassian came to stand beside her, not too close—but close enough for her to feel the gravity of his presence.

He looked out over the glittering skyline. “Tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“Why you’re really here.”

Zara didn’t look at him. “I could ask you the same.”

“You know who I am.”

“I do.”

“And you still let me touch you.”

She let out a breath—part laugh, part exhale. “You think that was your power?”

He turned, facing her now. “No. I think you’re dangerous.”

Zara met his gaze. “I am.”

There was something between them again, something sharp, unstable, like glass under pressure.

Cassian stepped forward. “Then show me what you’re hiding.”

“You wouldn’t survive it.”

He didn’t answer with words.

He reached for her—slowly, giving her every second to move. She didn’t. She didn’t even blink.

When his hand touched her waist, Zara’s breath hitched. His palm was warm, firm. Possessive in a way that should have pissed her off. Instead, it sent lightning down her spine.

He leaned in.

“I don’t want the version of you that fits in this dress,” he said, voice rough against her ear. “I want the one who keeps knives in her purse.”

“I don’t carry a purse.”

“Then where’s the knife?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He kissed her again.

This time, it wasn’t a question.

Zara pushed him back until his spine hit the stone wall beside the roof’s stairwell entrance. Their mouths collided with urgency—teeth, breath, hands tangling fast. He grabbed her hips, lifting her slightly, and she let out a soft gasp against his throat.

Her thigh hitched around his waist, and his jacket hit the floor.

Clothes became interruptions.

Words disappeared.

This wasn’t soft.

This wasn’t safe.

This was two people desperate to forget who they were.

The rooftop became a blur—cold air, hot skin, the hum of danger in her veins. Cassian was all fire and fury, but beneath it, there was control. Always control. The way he gripped her thighs. The way he breathed her name into her collarbone like a secret.

And Zara?

She didn’t stop it.

Because somewhere deep down, she wanted to be ruined by him.

Just once.

Just tonight.

When it was over, they didn’t speak. He tucked her hair behind her ear like he was tempted to pretend this was more than it was.

She slipped back into her dress without a word.

And disappeared down the stairs before he could even button his shirt.

The bed was cold when he reached for her.

Cassian’s eyes opened to soft morning gray filtering in through the penthouse suite’s massive windows, but the warmth beside him was gone. No weight. No voice. No movement.

Just the faint imprint of her body in the sheets, and the fading scent of something floral and forbidden—like jasmine and danger.

He sat up slowly.

No sound of heels on the floor. No running shower. No creak of a door. The suite was silent.

She was gone.

Cassian stared at the empty space beside him, then reached for the side table, checking for a note, a card, a damn lipstick kiss on a napkin. Nothing.

Only the ring from her wine-red dress, still hanging on the armchair across the room—like she’d stood there, watching him sleep, and then vanished into thin air.

She hadn’t left in a rush.

No.

She planned it.

He ran a hand down his face, trying to ignore the strange tightness in his chest.

He should’ve seen it coming.

She’d been a ghost from the start. No last name. No details. Just a look, a smirk, and eyes that didn’t blink when he leaned too close.

Cassian swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, bare feet brushing the cool tile. His suit jacket lay where she’d pushed it aside. He picked it up and paused.

Something was missing.

His pocket watch—an antique, silver, a gift from his grandfather—was gone.

Of course.

He laughed, dry and bitter. “Clever girl.”

He wasn’t even mad.

Well, maybe a little.

But mostly?

He was curious.

Cassian walked to the window, letting the full sweep of the city skyline hit his eyes. Down below, limos crawled like insects, people moved like data points, and somewhere out there…

She was walking away like none of this had happened.

She didn’t even look back.

And that?

That was new.

Cassian Wolfe didn’t get left.

Not without a reason.

He stood there, shirt half-buttoned, jaw tense, pulse ticking louder than the traffic below—and made a decision.

Find her.

Not because he missed her.

Not because he wanted to.

But because no one disappears on him.

Not without consequences.

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