Her Rules, His Game

The air inside the penthouse was thick.

Not with perfume. Not with smoke. But with tension.

It started after the kiss. That one, stolen moment of heat in the kitchen that neither of them talked about since.

Elara didn't scold him. Didn't mention it. She went on as if it never happened.

That was worse than yelling.

Because now every look felt calculated. Every silence was deafening.

And Jace hated that she had this kind of power over him.

On Tuesday morning, he came out of the shower wearing only a towel, heading to the kitchen for his protein shake. He paused at the hallway's end—Elara stood at the kitchen island in a sleek black robe that ended just above her knees.

She didn't flinch when she saw him.

Her gaze dropped. Slowly. Deliberately. Towel. Chest. Abs.

Then back up.

"Modesty isn't one of your strong suits," she said, sipping her espresso.

Jace stepped forward. "Neither is pretending."

She raised a brow. "Pretending what?"

"That you didn't like it."

"Like what?"

He smiled darkly. "When I kissed you."

A long pause.

Elara set down her cup. "What I like isn't your concern."

"Maybe not." He moved closer. "But I think it is. Especially when you look at me like you want to ruin me."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't mix pleasure and business."

"What are we, then?"

"Convenience."

The word hit like a slap. Jace's jaw ticked, but he didn't step back.

"Bullshit," he said, voice low. "You want control. That's fine. But don't pretend you don't feel this."

He stepped closer until they were almost chest to chest. Her robe brushed against his skin. Her perfume wrapped around him like a leash.

Elara didn't move. Her eyes locked on his.

Then she smiled faintly. "You think you're dangerous."

He smirked. "No. I know I am."

Without another word, she brushed past him. The soft silk of her robe slid across his stomach, teasing, taunting.

And then she was gone.

That night, he couldn't sleep.

He tossed in bed, sheets tangled around his waist, mind replaying her voice, her stare, her smirk.

Jace rolled out of bed, bare-chested, slipping into the hallway. The penthouse was quiet, dark, except for a soft glow coming from under her door.

He stood there. Listening.

His heartbeat echoed in his ears.

He knocked—once. Quiet.

Silence.

Then, a click. The door cracked open.

Elara stared at him. She wore a satin slip that clung to every inch of her body. Midnight blue. Bare shoulders. Collarbone sharp enough to cut.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.

He exhaled. "Not with you in the next room."

Her lips twitched. "Then sleep somewhere else."

She started to shut the door—but Jace pushed it open gently.

"Elara—"

"You're breaking a rule," she said.

"I've broken worse."

He stepped inside. Her room was as elegant as the rest of the penthouse—dark woods, wine-colored bedding, a vanity with a single bottle of perfume.

She didn't stop him.

He walked until he was in front of her. Inches apart. He looked at her—really looked at her. Not just the beauty. But the cracks underneath.

He saw hunger.

Loneliness.

Desire.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, voice thick.

She didn't.

So he kissed her.

This time it wasn't stolen.

It was permission.

Her lips parted under his. Her fingers clutched the back of his neck. She kissed him back like she was starving.

The cool edge she always wore melted under his touch.

She gasped softly when his hand slid down her spine. He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist.

He laid her on the bed, never breaking the kiss. Her robe fell open. Silk against skin. Heat against hunger.

But just as he started to trail kisses down her neck—

She froze.

"Stop," she whispered, breathless.

He did.

She turned her head, eyes closed, heart racing.

Jace waited.

After a moment, she spoke. "This... doesn't happen. Not like this."

He nodded, pulling away slightly. "Okay."

She sat up, pulling her robe around her.

"You need to leave," she said.

Jace stood. "Fine. But don't think you'll get rid of me that easy."

He walked to the door.

Before he opened it, he turned back. "You don't have to be cold with me."

She didn't respond.

But her eyes stayed on him long after he left the room.

The next morning, Elara was gone.

No note. No text. No scent of perfume in the air.

Jace paced the living room, jaw tight.

She was avoiding him.

And it pissed him off.

By evening, he finally saw her again—standing on the balcony, wine glass in hand, wearing another sharp black dress like armor.

He opened the sliding glass door. "Running from me now?"

She didn't turn. "I run from no one."

"Then what is this?"

"I'm protecting something."

"Your heart?" he scoffed.

"My rules," she said coldly.

He stepped closer. "Maybe your rules need to be broken."

She turned now, slowly. Her expression unreadable. "You think you're the first man to want me?"

"No," Jace said. "But I'll be the one you remember."

Their eyes locked again—heat, defiance, something deeper swirling between them.

She didn't reply.

But she didn't push him away either.

And Jace knew—this game wasn't over.

It was just beginning.