Page 11 of Gilded Shackles
Every rational thought I've ever been trained to obey starts lining up to lecture me.You don't know him. You shouldn't trust him. You don't even belong here.
But none of them are loud enough to drown out the simple, aching truth pulsing beneath my skin: I want to know what it feels like to live before I go back to being locked away.
"Where?" I whisper.
He smiles, small and knowing. "Somewhere quieter."
My heart does this stupid leap. "You always kidnap girls on their birthdays?"
"Only the ones who run toward danger instead of away."
I laugh, shaking my head. "Guess that makes me your kind of idiot."
He takes my hand. His fingers are warm, rough, certain. The ink on his knuckles presses against my skin and my body hums with something that feels less like a first touch and more like a return.
"Come on, Elle."
The music swells as he leads me off the floor, through a corridor of flashing lights and perfume. My pulse is ridiculous, my brain is screamingturn back, but my heart is whispering something louder.
Finally.
3
ELLE
I've never done anything this reckless in my life. Not even close. And considering I snuck out of a building my mother surveils like a military compound, that's saying something.
The hotel lobby is all opulence. Dim lighting, piano music drifting from somewhere far off, and my heels clicking against marble that is polished to the point of being a mirror. I feel underdressed, overdressed, and completely unhinged, all at once.
His hand hasn't left the small of my back since we left the club. The touch is light enough that I could bolt if I wanted to. I don't want to. My skin burns where his palm rests, like he's already branding me through the fabric.
Jesus forgive me, because I'm all for it.
"Room's upstairs," he says. Voice low, almost bored.
Oh good. He's calm. I, meanwhile, am one elevator ride away from a full cardiac event.
The mirrored doors close behind us, trapping us in a small silver box. I stare at the reflection of us: me in a dress too short to be wise, him looking like a walking warning label. Silver hair, dark suit, ink crawling up his fingers where they rest against my spine. We look like a headline waiting to happen.
He presses the button. The elevator hums to life. Our eyes meet in the glass.
The air shifts into something heavy and charged.
I try to speak, but my throat forgets how to work. He doesn't move, just watches me in the reflection like I'm something he's still deciding whether to unwrap or walk away from. The only sound is the low thrum of the elevator and my heartbeat performing its own rebellion.
When the doors open, the temperature jumps ten degrees.
"Down here," he says.
"Uh-huh." Eloquent. Really selling the whole sophisticated-woman-of-the-world act.
The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. My pulse is anything but. He leads the way and I follow like I'm tethered.
He slides the key card into the door. It blinks green and the door is pushed open.
"Last chance to change your mind," Nik murmurs without turning around.
I meet his gaze when he does. "Do I look like I'm changing my mind?"
