Chapter Seven
Vane
I find her at the edge of the world.
She is standing on the limestone ledge, her white silk blouse translucent in the moonlight, her hair a wild, tangled halo around her face. She looks like a siren who has forgotten how to swim.
I stop ten feet away. I don't want to end this yet. The "Hunt" is the only time I feel the blood actually moving in my veins. In the boardroom, I win because I have more resources. Out here, I win because I am the storm.
"The cliff is a poor hiding spot, Sloane," I say, stepping into the light. I've discarded my jacket; my sleeves are rolled up, the moonlight catching the silver of my watch—the only thing keeping track of the seconds she has left. "It suggests a desire to be caught. Or a desire to jump. Which is it?"
She turns to face me. Her eyes are wide, the pupils blown so large they've nearly swallowed the iris. She's gasping for air, her chest heaving, the pulse in her throat a frantic, visible beat.
"I'm not jumping, Mr. Sterling," she gasps, her voice cracking. "I'm just... waiting for the clock to run out."
"The clock only stops when I say it does."
I walk toward her, closing the distance. She takes a half-step back, her heel dangling over the abyss. I reach out, my hand snapping around her waist with the force of a trap. I pull her flush against me, the impact of our bodies knocking the breath out of her lungs.
"Careful," I whisper, my lips inches from hers. "If you fall, I have to find a new assistant. And I've grown fond of your particular brand of misery."
"You don't own my life, Vane," she spits. It's the first time she's used my name without the title in months. The sound of it is a spark in a powder keg.
"Don't I?" I pull her tighter, my hand sliding up her spine to the nape of her neck, forcing her to look up at me. "I own your mornings. I own your nights. I own the air your mother breathes. I own the very silk on your back."
I lean in, the scent of her—salt, sweat, and that woody perfume—filling my lungs. "You signed the papers. You traded your 'dignity' for a premium room at the clinic. Don't act like a victim now. You're a partner in this crime."
"I did it for her!" she cries, her voice breaking into a sob she's been holding back since Manhattan.
"And I'm doing this for us because I know that this is what you want too." I rasp.
I kiss her then. It isn't a kiss of affection; it's an audit. A claim. I want to taste the rebellion in her mouth. I want to feel the moment her resistance turns into that desperate, addictive hunger I know she hides. She fights me for a second, her fists thumping against my chest, and then... she collapses. Not physically, but the mask shatters. She moans into my mouth, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer with a ferocity that matches my own.
This is the "No Emotion" clause being incinerated in real-time.