The sun was set to set, leaving the sky a bruised purple that would fade into black. The streetlights of the private estate road were few and far between, leaving long stretches of darkness that felt expectant.
Lauren sat in her car outside the iron gates of Grey Knight's mansion. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. The dashboard clock read 5:55 PM.
She had spent the afternoon sitting in a park, staring at the ducks, trying to figure a way out. She had mentally drafted emails to the ethics board. She had considered fleeing the state. But she had David to think of. She had Josephine. She had Beatrice. She couldn't go to jail. She couldn't leave her family behind.
She had to do this.
"Just a job," she whispered to herself, her voice trembling in the quiet car. "It's just a job. You go in. You take notes. You ignore the creepy staring. You ignore the… the rest."
She took a deep breath, put the car in drive, and rolled up to the security booth.
The guard waved her through without checking her ID. They were expecting her.
The drive up the winding path felt like a funeral procession of one. The mansion loomed ahead, dark and jagged against the orange sky.
She parked. She got out. The air was cool, biting at her exposed skin. She had changed her clothes three times before leaving the apartment. She had settled on a high-necked navy blouse and a pencil skirt that fell below her knees. It was armor. It was conservative. It screamed 'lawyer.'
She walked to the door. Before she could knock, it opened.
It wasn't the blind maid this time.
It was him.
Grey Knight stood in the doorway, framed by the golden light of the hallway behind him. He looked different tonight. Less corporate. He was wearing black trousers and a black cashmere sweater that hugged his broad shoulders. He looked softer, yet somehow more dangerous. Like a wolf that didn't need to growl to prove it could bite.
He looked at her. His eyes—the blue one and the storm-grey one—swept over her body, noting the high neckline, the stiff posture, the fear vibrating off her in waves.
"You came back," he said. His voice was low, rolling over her like a caress.
"I didn't have a choice," Lauren said, her voice tight. "Petra made that very clear."
Grey stepped back, holding the door open. "Petra is a useful tool. But she thinks she controls the board. She doesn't realize she's just a pawn."
Lauren stepped inside. The house was warm, smelling of that same intoxicating mix of cedar and rain. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, the air pressure seemed to change. The outside world was gone. The rules of the outside world were gone.
"I'm here to work on the defense, Mr. Knight," Lauren said, clutching her bag. "And I want to establish some ground rules. Yesterday was… unacceptable. The physical contact. The intimidation. It stops."
Grey didn't answer immediately. He turned and walked down the hallway, expecting her to follow. Lauren hesitated, then trailed after him, keeping a safe distance.
He didn't lead her to the library this time. He led her to a sitting room she hadn't seen before. It was smaller, more intimate. A fire was crackling in the hearth. There was a velvet sofa, a low coffee table with a bottle of wine and two glasses, and no books. No distractions.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the sofa.
Lauren remained standing near the door. "I prefer to stand."
Grey turned to face her. He put his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed. "You're angry."
"I am cornered," she corrected. "There is a difference."
"Is there?" He tilted his head. "You struck me yesterday, Lauren. That wasn't the act of a cornered animal. That was the act of an equal. You didn't slap me because you were scared. You slapped me because you were tempted."
"I was not tempted!" Lauren snapped, her cheeks flushing hot. "You were harassing me. You were brainwashing me with some twisted logic about choking being affection."
"And yet," Grey took a slow step toward her, "you didn't report me. You didn't go to the police. You came back."
"Petra blackmailed me!"
"Petra threatened you with a file," Grey said calmly. "But you could have called her bluff. You could have fought. But you didn't. You got in your car and you drove up that hill."
He was doing it again. He was twisting reality, making her motives seem murky even to herself. He was inside her head, rearranging the furniture.
"I am here to save my career," she stated firmly.
"You are here because you want to know if I'm right," he countered.
He stopped in front of her. He didn't touch her. He just looked at her with an intensity that made her knees weak.
"You want to know if the monster is real," Grey whispered. "You want to know if the man who strangled Elara Vance is standing in front of you, or if the man who loved her is."
"Which one is it?" Lauren asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Both," Grey said. "We are all both, Lauren. Even you. Especially you. The lawyer who follows the rules, and the woman who destroys evidence to save a drug dealer."
Lauren froze. Her heart stopped. "How… how do you know about that?"
"I told you," Grey smiled, a slow, predatory curving of his lips. "I know everything. I don't need Petra to keep you here. I have my own leverage. But I don't want to use leverage. I want you to choose this."
"Choose what?" she cried out, frustration bubbling over. "What do you want from me?"
"I want your mind," he said. "I want you to stop thinking like a lawyer and start thinking like a partner. The jury will see through a rehearsed defense. They need to see conviction. They need to look at you and see a woman who understands the darkness and isn't afraid of it."
He walked over to the small table and poured a glass of wine. The liquid was dark red, almost black in the firelight. He held it out to her.
"Drink."
"I'm on duty."
"You are off the clock. You are in my house. Drink."
It was a command, not a request. Lauren walked forward slowly, her legs feeling like lead. she took the glass. Her fingers brushed his. The spark was immediate—a jolt of electricity that shot up her arm.
She took a sip. The wine was rich, heavy, and expensive. It warmed her chest instantly.
"The prosecution's case will rest on the idea that BDSM is inherently abusive," Grey said, pouring a glass for himself. "That I am a dominant, sadist predator. They will paint me as a man who gets off on pain."
"Is that true?" Lauren asked, emboldened by the wine.
"I get off on control," Grey corrected. "And on trust. Elara gave me her trust. She gave me her body to use for our mutual pleasure. It is a contract, Lauren. A sacred one."
He set his glass down and looked at her. "To defend me, you have to understand the contract. You have to understand the headspace."
"You keep saying that," Lauren said. "But what does it mean? Practically?"
"It means we engage," Grey said. "It means we talk. It means I push you, and you push back. It means we explore the boundaries of your comfort zone."
"You want to brainwash me," she said bluntly.
"I want to deprogram you," he replied. "Society has taught you that submission is weakness. I want to show you it is strength."
Lauren looked at him—really looked at him. He was terrifying. He was offering to dismantle her entire worldview. He was offering to take the reins of her chaotic, stressful life and hold them for a while.
And God help her, a part of her wanted it. A part of her was tired of being the strong one, the fixer, the one who held everything together.
"If I agree to… to listen," Lauren started, her voice shaking. "If I agree to this… method. Where does it end?"
Grey moved closer. The air crackled. He reached out and, very gently, took the wine glass from her hand and set it aside.
"It ends when you win my case," he said.
He raised a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jawline. His thumb brushed her bottom lip.
Lauren didn't pull away. She couldn't. She was paralyzed by the proximity, by the scent of him, by the sheer gravity of his presence.
"You are wondering about the specifics," Grey murmured, reading her mind with terrifying accuracy. "You are wondering if this is a seduction."
"Is it?" she breathed.
"Everything is a seduction, Lauren. Court is seduction. Business is seduction."
He stepped closer, his body pressing lightly against hers. She could feel the heat of him through her clothes. She felt small, fragile, and utterly consumed.
"You want to know if we are going to have sex," Grey stated. It wasn't a question.
Lauren's heart hammered against her ribs. The air in the room vanished. She looked up into his mismatched eyes—the ice and the storm—and saw no judgment, only a raw, naked hunger that mirrored her own.
She should slap him again. She should run. She should call the police.
Instead, the words tumbled out of her mouth, a confession she hadn't meant to make.
"Will we?"
The silence that followed was thick and charged with enough tension to power the city.
Grey looked down at her. His gaze darkened. His pupils dilated, swallowing the iris. He didn't smile. He looked deadly serious.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, sending shivers cascading down her spine.
"Yes," he whispered, his voice a rough growl that vibrated in her bones. "And I fuck rough."
Lauren gasped, a sharp intake of air that sounded loud in the quiet room. Her legs almost gave out. The bluntness, the vulgarity of it, mixed with his sophisticated demeanor, shattered something inside her. It was a promise and a threat all wrapped in one.
She looked up at him, wide-eyed, her lips parted.
He didn't kiss her. He didn't grab her. He just let the words hang there, filling the space between them, changing everything.
"But not tonight," Grey said, pulling back inches, his eyes locking onto hers again. "Tonight, we talk. Tonight, you learn to sit still. Tonight, you learn that the anticipation is just as heavy as the act."
He stepped back, breaking the physical contact but leaving the psychological tether pulled tight. He gestured to the sofa again.
"Sit, Lauren."
And this time, without a word of protest, Lauren sat.