Chapter Seven: The First Touch

(Luca POV)

The phone rings, and by the ringtone, I know, before I even look at the screen, who is calling: Viktor. I don't answer, my eyes still on Mila from a distance. She walks through the bar with so much clumsiness and uncertainty, her movements speaking volumes.

Yet when she stands still for moments, I can see her resolve and defiance, suggesting she wants to bolt out of here from fear. She should be scared. She should be aware of the shadows in this place and the dangers that wait just beyond the flickering lights. But I won't allow her to run, not anymore. And that sense of bravery she has to stay—or, perhaps, folly—makes her very dangerous for me.

My cell phone rings again, this time more insistently. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for what's to come, and then answer.

"Talk," I say, my voice measured and emotionless.

"She's lying," Viktor says flatly, but there's an edge to his voice. I can see him leaning back in his chair, that calculated look on his face when he's suspicious. His eyes were alert when they met hers, just like Adrian's were.

"Tell me something I don't know," I say, keeping my voice even though I'm annoyed. Viktor's dry chuckle reaches me, but nothing is funny about it.

'We're working a few leads, but we can't find anything on the name she gave. That doesn't mean she's innocent.' It just means she's meticulous." Adrian's voice cut in sharply, like a knife through the static.

"Listen, anyone who hides their past that effectively has a reason for it." I'm acutely aware of that reality. Logic screams at me to stop this before it spirals out of control, to cut ties before whatever darkness is trailing her catches up to us.

But I don't follow it for reasons that are not clear to me. "I'll get on it," I say, hanging up before they can continue, their insistence still in the air. I'll think about my brothers another time. Right now, I need to figure out Mila. I must figure out what's beneath that beautiful yet sassy smile. It happens fast.

Too fast.

But I don't follow that instinct for reasons that escape me. For a moment, I sat, watching the bar, twirling my drink, where the whiskey and smoke were enough to let me know I belonged. I tell myself to turn away, to stop staring at her, and snap out of this stupid trance.

But the next moment? Mila tilts the glass, and a splash of bourbon hits her chest, neck, and face. She gasps out loud, "Fucking hell," she mumbles. I see the stain soaking into the thin, clinging material of her shirt, making her nipples hard, which makes her breasts look soft and round. I should look away. I don't. I can't. She swears under her breath again, and her fingers scramble for a napkin. I see her frantically tug at her collar, and my heart stops.

Something catches my eye as I watch her rub the spilled bourbon off her collar. A tiny and barely noticeable mark under all the layers of makeup she's applied to cover it—a heart-shaped birthmark. My jaw clamps shut, and I grip my glass tighter. Why would she want to hide that? It's not a scar; it's nothing to be ashamed of.

Unless... unless it means something... unless someone knows about that mark. I don't take a moment to think. I don't allow myself to hesitate. I move. Before she even notices I've walked over to the bar, closer to her, my hand slides around her wrist, a slow, careful hold that makes her stop dead. Her whole body tenses, her fingers stop dead in mid-movement, the napkin forgotten.

She turns slowly, mouth open just a little in shock, her expression confused. There's a brief flash of vulnerability in those big green eyes, like she's searching my eyes for an answer as to why I grabbed her.

"Boss?" Nico asks from behind me, his voice wary. He's seen me go off like this before; he knows how my obsessions work, how I latch onto something and won't let go. This is just the first time it's involved a woman. I don't respond to him. As she looks at me, the world disappears, and it's just her and me in a moment that breaks all the boundaries I've upheld so carefully up to now.

"Come with me," I say, low and tinged with a quiet, dangerous fury. Her brow furrows as she blinks in uncertainty. "What?" I don't need to repeat myself. My hold is firm but a silent command that she obeys without thinking. As I pull her with me, I see Nico shift slightly. His instinct tells him to say something, but he knows better than to. Tasha, across the bar, watches us with envy and curiosity. She looks angry. But I don't care.

At first, Mila moves haltingly, then tensely with anticipation. Then, she moves with me, shivering under my touch. She should pull away, but she doesn't.

As soon as I opened the door to my office and she stepped into it, I knew this was my breaking point, the point of no return, and I knew she knew it, too. All the control I thought I had has already slipped away.

All in the air is the anticipation of whatever is to come. The door clicks shut behind us, and we're cut off from the outside world's noise, which now seems far away. Mila shuffles, her fingers twitching at her sides, and she doesn't know what to do. She should be ripping into me, demanding to know why I've brought her back here. That is what she should be doing. But she does not. 

I should be demanding answers to my questions, but for reasons I can't explain, I am more aware of her presence and how she looks up at me as if she wants me to touch her again. I step closer, seeing the tension in her. I grab a pack of wipes from the mess on my desk, moving very loudly in the silence—her brow furrows, confused and worried.

'What are you doing?' she asks, her voice trembling with the anxiety that's creeping in. I don't answer; words feel inadequate at this moment. Instead, I tilt her chin up, my fingers running along her jaw, and start to wipe away the makeup on her neck, revealing the mark she's had hidden. She takes a sharp breath, and her reaction is at once surprised and vulnerable.

I ignore the heat of her flesh under my hand, and the fact that she doesn't pull away doesn't move. Gradually, the mark comes into full view. A barely visible but utterly distinct heart-shaped birthmark sits at the hollow of her throat.

My fingers twitch involuntarily. I trace it with my thumb, feeling the shape beneath my fingers.

Fuck.

"Why hide this? " I whisper, low and interested. Her breath catches in her throat. The slight twitch gives her away. 'Just because,' she says, the word coming out like a child's desperate lie. It's a lie—I feel it in her voice, in the way her pulse pounds against my fingers, showing me she's not at all calm. I tilt my head, staring into those eyes, searching for the answers she already knows.

"Why cover it?" I press, trying to get beneath the layers she's built around herself. She exhales shakily. Her walls are starting to crumble. 'I don't like it,' she says, though the words sound forced. She's trying to convince both of us.

Another lie—almost too loud in the air between us. But before I can say it, I make another mistake before I can push her to face the truth in the shadows of her mind. I lean in close, the air tense with expectation and unsaid feelings.

And without thinking, without a single warning—

I lick the mark. 

Her body locks, every muscle tight. A ragged gasp comes from her lips. I don't know why I did it, but it was an impulse, plain and simple. I didn't want to touch her. If I am honest, I craved it, and at that moment, it heats me just as much as it heats her. When my tongue touches the curve of her throat, a jolt of awareness slashes through me —this was no innocent taste.

I'm fucked.

She pulls back, her eyes wide, her breath gasps.

'What the hell—' she starts, looking at me for answers I don't have.

"Tell me the truth, I say." My voice was low and steady, carrying a demand. Her lips moved to answer, and then she shook her head, her expression changing.

'I just hate it,' she says, the lie hanging on a thread. 'That's why I cover it.' I want to call her on it, to get to the bottom of that lie, but I hold back. I know it's bullshit.

I can feel the lie, the shit she is hiding.

But I won't push—not yet, because the risk is too high. If I try too hard and fast, she might run, and a primal part of me is already too obsessed with her to like the idea of her getting away.

So, I deliberately moved back and put space between us. I gave her room to think she'd won this round and had me in her pocket. But as she turned to go, her hand clutching the handle like she was trying to break free, I stiffened.

Because I know this isn't over—not by a long shot.

Because whatever the hell she's hiding?

I'll unearth it.

And when I do?

She'll have nowhere left to run.