Let's play.

KAEL

"This way, sir."

The airport staff's voice barely registered. My attention was fixed elsewhere—on her. I couldn't wait to have her trembling under me.

Aria walked beside me, head high, gaze straight ahead, as if I didn't exist. If glares were bullets, I'd be a corpse bleeding out on the polished floor, gutted by the violence in her silence. The image seared through me like whiskey down a raw throat.

How many times had she called me a bastard today? Probably too many to count. But not enough, I wanted more.

I craved the crackle of her rage, the way her curses would curl against my ear—laced with loathing and want, sharp enough to draw blood.

I could almost picture it—her under me trembling with a need that she'd deny, taunting me, resisting just enough to drive me insane.

A sharp exhale shattered the fantasy.

"If you keep staring at me like that, sir," she drawled, voice sultry venom, "I might have to fly economy. Or carve your eyes out with a butter knife. Your pick."

Still refusing to look at me.

My grin cut crooked. "I'll risk the cutlery."

The corner of her lips twitched, but she caught herself before the expression could form.

The jet's cabin swallowed us whole. Hostesses fluttered, guiding us to leather seats facing each other. I slumped into mine, gaze devouring her every flinch.

As expected, her face twisted in something close to disgust.

My pulse roared. Christ. That look—it speared me low and hot.

Not now, Kael. Patience.

The flight to Italy was smooth. Aria remained distant, arms crossed, eyes flickering out the window as if she could ignore me into oblivion.

When we arrived at the hotel—one of my client's properties—our rooms had already been prepared. Separately.

Temporary.

I had a suit fitting scheduled before the meeting. Of course I dragged her.

She perched on the boutique's velvet chaise, legs crossed like a blade, feigning boredom. But her eyes—molten, tracking my every move—betrayed her. I let her stare. Let her fume.

And then it was her turn.

She stepped onto the platform, the tailor draping fabrics over her, pinning and tucking, testing how each one fit.

Every inch of her curves was highlighted, the soft fabric clinging to her body. That shirt from earlier was a threat—this was a slaughter.

My jaw clenched.

The dress stretched taut over her chest, and fuck—her nipples, just barely visible, teased through the fabric.

I exhaled slowly. Tearing my gaze away was an act of sheer will.

Control yourself.

The final dress: onyx, backless, a second skin. Perfect for the after meeting-dinner.

She glanced at me then, tilting her head slightly, as if daring me to comment.

I smirked. She still had no idea just how much I was holding back. But she'd find out soon enough.

***

The meeting room reeked of old-money rot—sweating mahogany, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Milan's skyline and men who'd sell their mothers for a percentage point.

The board members of Moretti Automotive, one of the leading electronic vehicle manufacturers in Europe, sat before me, eyes filled with expectation like vultures in Brioni suits.

I sprawled in my chair, exuding the same quiet dominance that had I'd run my father's empire with.

"Gentlemen," The word froze the air. "our expansion into the North American market requires strategic partnerships. The infrastructure for our EV charging stations will dictate our success. Relying on third-party manufacturers is a risk." A razor-slash smile. "We take control, or we leave billions on the table. No different than begging for a bullet in the foot."

Murmurs rippled—greedy, blood-warm.

Alexandro Moretti's stare could flay skin. "You're proposing we swallow battery production whole."

"Down to the bone." My thumb brushed the report's edge. "The numbers don't lie." A glance at Aria. She moved like a storm contained, depositing documents with scalpel-blade precision.

Not a breath out of place. Not a single tremble in her fingers. Not a single hesitation.

But I wasn't her only audience.

Marco Benedetti—third-generation trust fund with the IQ of a spoon—had been licking her since she entered. His gaze pooled at her ankles, crawled up stocking-seamed calves, lingered where her shirt strained.

A dark thrill uncoiled in my gut. And then it hit me—why not have a little fun?

Let's play.

I tilted toward him, voice a low and deliberate, tone misleading him on purpose. "She's perfect, right?"

Marco startled, then smirked—a hungry idiot's grin. "Like a fucking Stradivarius."

My laugh stayed buried, copper-bitter behind steepled fingers. This fucking fool. At least he had good taste. But he wasn't even worth a taste of her spit.

Aria remained oblivious. She had no idea what I had just set up for her. Good. Let the trap spring unseen.

The meeting dragged—spreadsheets, projections, hollow power flexes. My attention split. Half on the theatrics, half on her. The way her pen stabbed paper when I spoke. How her throat pulsed each time I said partner. Every clipped answer a grenade with the pin halfway out.

The thrill of watching her sent a rush. God, I wanted to bite the fuse.

Nicolo Ferrari cornered us afterward as expected, reeking of cigars and nostalgia. "Dinner in the penthouse," he insisted, jowls quivering. "My chef will destroy you with truffles."

I nodded, already tasting the game. Marco's eyes clung to Aria's back as she left. My molars ached from not grinning.

Tonight, that spineless fuck would try to pluck my violin. And I'd revel in the snapping strings.