Smoke from Caleb's cigarette curled around the bar's neon sign as Luna's veil slipped. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the curve of her jawline, the defiant arch of brows framing eyes that burned brighter than the chandeliers above. His lighter slipped from numb fingers, clattering against marble floors in a dissonant echo.
She retreated like a wraith, silk whispering against her hurried steps. Caleb's breath fogged the corridor mirror as he pursued, the scent of her shampoo—jasmine and something sharper, like storm-wet iron—lingering in her wake.
In the restroom's fluorescents, Luna's reflection wavered. Years of anonymity dissolved beneath dripping faucets. The paper towel disintegrated in her grip, leaving pulp beneath fingernails.
He materialized outside like a specter, one boot propped against the wall. "Running loses its charm after the third lap, Mrs. Thorn."
She sidestepped, but his arm barred the exit. "Move."
"Make me." The challenge hung between them, charged as live wires.
Luna's heel connected with his shin. Caleb's chuckle chased her down fire escapes, through alleys reeking of rotting fruit and broken promises.
The city bus wheezed to her rescue, its diesel growl drowning her pulse. Neon advertisements painted passengers in sickly greens. A teenager's gasp cut through the monotony: "Holy shit—is that a Valkyrie GT?"
Heads swiveled. Twin headlights sliced through dusk, chrome grille snarling. Caleb's silhouette emerged—sleeves rolled past ink-black tattoos, one hand draped over the steering wheel like a bored monarch.
The bus lurched. Luna gripped a rusted pole as the Aston Martin matched its speed, window to window. Caleb's smirk flashed through glass, all predator patience.
Brakes screamed. The driver crossed himself as Caleb mounted the curb, scattering pigeons and pretense.
Passengers parted like courtiers. He ascended the steps, tracking her retreat down the aisle. "Three million buys more than silence, little mouse."
The penthouse suite swallowed their footsteps whole. Luna's back hit satin sheets as Caleb loomed, his belt buckle cold against her palm.
"Unbuckle it."
"Do your own dirty work."
His knuckle traced the stain on his slacks—rust-brown blooming against midnight wool. "Your mess. Your responsibility."
Realization dawned with mortifying clarity. "You're insane."
"Certifiably." He trapped her wrist, breath hot against her ear. "But you'll find madness has its perks."
The belt gave with a serpent's hiss. Somewhere beyond the soundproofing, the city pulsed—a living, bleeding thing. Caleb's laughter vibrated against her collarbone as she fumbled.
"Shall I demonstrate?"
"I'd rather swallow broken glass."
His teeth found her pulse point. "Liar."
The bedside phone shrilled. Caleb's curse tangled with her relieved gasp. Across town, Xander's voice blared: "Bro! Your ex-wife's here with a flamethrower!"
Luna's laughter escaped like caged birds. Caleb's glare could've frozen magma. "This isn't over."
"It never is." She pocketed his lighter, silk robe flaring like a matador's cape.
The Valkyrie's engine roared beneath her stolen keys. In the rearview, Caleb's silhouette burned brighter than the city skyline—a king dethroned, a hunter outsmarted.
Somewhere between third gear and freedom, Luna realized the stain wasn't menstrual blood.
It was burgundy wine—Caleb's 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild, poured deliberately during her escape.
The bastard had planned this.
The belt's silver buckle glinted like a challenge under the suite's recessed lighting. Luna's fingers slipped again, the Italian leather resisting her fumbling attempts. Caleb's low laughter vibrated against her temple as he loomed closer, knees bracketing her hips on the rumpled duvet.
"Eager to undress me, Mrs. Thorn?" His breath stirred the veil's edge.
She froze, suddenly aware of the tableau they presented—his shadow swallowing hers against the headboard's tufted velvet, her knuckles brushing the heat beneath his waistband. "I'm auditing your... hygiene standards," she retorted, chin lifted.
His smirk faltered. The suite bore his imprint—scotch tumblers fossilized on the nightstand, a single discarded cufflink glinting in the carpet pile. No perfume lingered here, just bergamot and restless nights.
"Two days," she murmured, tracing a water ring on the mahogany nightstand. "You played hermit crab in this gilded shell?"
Caleb's jaw tightened. Moonlight through sheer drapes exposed the sleepless bruises beneath his eyes. "Hermits don't bankrupt oligarchs at poker."
Her fingertip found a chip in the headboard's lacquer. "And the women draped over you tonight? Part of the winnings?"
The mattress shifted as he captured her wrist, pressing her palm flat against his sternum. "Feel that?" His heartbeat thundered beneath her touch—wild stallion against her caged pulse. "Still yours to wreck."
The admission hung between them, raw and dangerous. Luna's resolve crumbled first. She tugged his belt with renewed desperation, the prong finally releasing with a serpent's hiss.
Caleb stilled. "Why the hurry, little wife?"
Her laugh sounded brittle even to herself. "To see if you've replaced me as easily as your cufflinks."
The belt slithered free. He caught it mid-air, leather whispering against her collarbone. "Careful what you hunt."
Her retaliation died on parted lips as his mouth found the vulnerable hollow beneath her ear. The suite's climate control faltered, humidity rising with every hitched breath.
"Caleb." Her protest emerged half-drowned.
"Hmm?" His teeth grazed her pulse point.
"I'm..." She pressed his hand below her navel, where cramps twisted like barbed wire. "...bleeding."
His recoil was almost comical. The belt clattered to marble floors as he stared at his palm, as though expecting scarlet evidence. "You let me—"
"You assumed." Her smile felt fragile. "The stain was merlot, not... well."
Silence pooled between them, thick with thwarted tension. Caleb's fingers flexed—conqueror's hands suddenly useless.
Luna curled into the duvet's silk embrace. "Pads. The 24-hour mart stocks organic cotton."
"Absolutely not."
Her bare foot connected with his thigh. "Or shall I redecorate your Egyptian cotton?"
He captured her ankle, calloused thumb circling the delicate bone. "Kick again and I'll return the favor." The threat lacked heat, his gaze already scanning for abandoned room service menus.
Black Diamond's back alley reeked of dumpster juice and broken dreams. Caleb's Valentino loafers navigated puddles with distaste, hoodie pulled low against paparazzi drones. The convenience store's fluorescents buzzed like angry wasps.
"Size?" The clerk didn't glance up from her manga.
Caleb's throat constricted. "The... absorbent ones."
"Flow?"
"What?"
She sighed, snapping gum. "Light? Niagara Falls? Choose a lane, pretty boy."
His AmEx hit the counter. "All of them."
Jaden's tablet glowed in the VIP booth's gloom. "He's purchasing feminine hygiene products."
Xander's mojito spewed across the blackjack table. "Our ice-cold overlord? Playing errand boy for—"
"Finish that sentence," Caleb growled, plastic bag crinkling in his fist, "and I'll donate your tongue to science."
The bag landed on Luna's lap with a soft thud. She peered inside—overnight pads, heating patches, even a rogue chocolate bar.
"The clerk insisted," he muttered, examining a hangnail.
Luna's laughter unfurled like dawn breaking—warm, unexpected, devastating. Caleb's scowl softened as she pressed a heating patch to his palm.
"For your pride," she whispered. "I hear it's frostbitten."
Outside, the city hummed its electric lullaby. Somewhere between menstrual cramps and smuggled chocolate, borders blurred.