How beautiful.
He thought this as he watched her rise unsteadily to her feet, her every movement captivating in the dim, unforgiving moonlight.
She had passed out earlier, slumped over at the club, her laughter still ringing in his ears. He had watched her, the way she giggled, how her eyes sparkled when she spoke to him.
The stripper.
And now, that same man hung precariously above the tank, his fate dangling by a thread.
What had he done to deserve her laughter? What had he said that made her smile so freely?
Why had she wasted her voice, her breath, on him?
The thought burned.
But no, his queen could do as she pleased. She was untouchable, flawless, divine. It was her subjects who would suffer for their insolence, just as the stripper did now.
That man had dared to bask in her laughter, revel in her kindness, and linger in her presence.
And then, the words: "Let's be friends."
They echoed in his mind, a bitter symphony that curdled his thoughts.
When she passed out at the club, he had been minding his own business. For once, he'd kept his distance, simply watching her from the shadows.
But when she slumped over, he didn't hesitate. He swept her up into his arms, ready to take her home, ready to shield her from the world.
That's when the stripper made his fatal mistake.
"Who are you?"
The audacity.
The club was his. One of many small businesses he operated to amuse himself.
This man, this dog, lived off the scraps tossed his way, scraps that existed because she had graced the club with her presence.
"Who am I?" he had replied with venom-laced sarcasm.
He leaned closer, his voice low and mocking. "I'm death. And I've come to take your life."
The man didn't even have time to react before his men covered his head with a black bag.
He looked down at her now, sleeping soundly, her face nestled against his lap, her delicate features soft in the faint light.
Her dress, if it could even be called that—clung to her body, the hem scandalously high on her thighs.
He clenched his jaw. Riley would pay for convincing her to wear such a thing.
But then, as he took in her beauty, he sighed.
He hated how much she affected him. Hated how she could make him feel so powerless, so undone, with just her existence.
The muffled thuds of the stripper struggling in the trunk of his Koenigsegg barely registered as the car pulled up to the unfinished bridge, a project he'd partnered on with the government.
He placed her gently on the ground, brushing a strand of hair from her face. For a moment, he was tempted to let her rest, to protect her from the harshness of the world. But then his darker impulses surged.
She needed to remember who she was dealing with.
The thrill of watching her eyes widen in horror as she took in the scene, James struggling above the tank, the oppressive darkness surrounding them, sent a jolt of satisfaction through him.
And yet, as she scrambled to save the man despite her fear of water, something inside him ached.
She was too good for him.
He was a shell. She was his heart.
He was darkness. She was light.
That was why he had to let her drown.
As the light faded from her eyes, his chest constricted painfully, rage and loathing coiling in his stomach. He hated her for what she made him feel.
He hated her for making him want to be better.
It would be better if she died.
And yet, as her body stilled, as her light began to flicker out, he couldn't let her go.
With a resigned sigh, he shed his Giorgio Armani jacket, the fabric falling unceremoniously to the ground.
And then he dove.
Into the icy water, into her world.
Because no matter how much he loathed her, no matter how much he hated the way she changed him, she was his.
And he would save her.