The room was too warm, or maybe that was just him.
Storm stood near the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand, watching her with the kind of patience that made her feel like prey. The flames flickered behind him, casting shadows across the sharp planes of his face.
Livvy stood near the couch, arms crossed tightly over her chest, not for warmth but for protection. It did little to steady her nerves. The oversized hoodie she wore—his hoodie—hung loose on her frame, the sleeves swallowing her hands.
“I need your help,” she said, forcing her voice to hold steady.
Storm swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his lips curling slightly. “Do you now?”
She swallowed hard. “Michael hasn’t been answering my calls. I have to find him.”
No reaction. Not right away. He took a slow sip of his drink, watching her over the rim of the glass. It was almost unbearable, the waiting, the suffocating silence stretching between them. When he finally moved, it was deliberate, controlled—his glass clinking softly against the bar cart as he set it down.
Then he stalked toward her.
Livvy didn’t move, but her fingers dug into her arms as he closed the distance between them. He was too close now, his scent invading her senses—spice and leather, dark and intoxicating.
“And what,” he murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “do I get in return?”
A chill danced down her spine, but she forced herself to hold her ground. “I’ll pay you back.”
He hummed, unimpressed. “With what, exactly?”
She opened her mouth, but the words died when his fingertips skimmed down the side of her face, tracing lightly over her jaw before trailing lower, down the curve of her neck. Her breath hitched.
“I—I don’t—”
Storm’s thumb brushed against the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse. It was racing, and he knew it. His smirk deepened.
“Oh, you did, Livvy.” His voice was a dark promise, velvet-wrapped steel. “You’ll pay with your body.”
Her pulse stuttered, panic and something else tangling inside her. “You can’t be serious.”
Storm leaned in, his breath ghosting over her jaw. “Can’t I?”
He wasn’t touching her anywhere indecent, wasn’t forcing anything, but the way he spoke, the way his fingers barely lingered against her skin, made her stomach twist.
For years, he had watched her. Waited. Never taking, never crossing the line—but making damn sure she knew he wanted to.
Now, with Michael gone, she had nowhere else to turn.
“Say yes,” he whispered against the shell of her ear. “Or walk away and find him on your own.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, nails pressing into solid muscle.
Storm never offered things for free. He never did anything without a price.
And this was the price.
Her body burned with the weight of the moment, the suffocating heat of his gaze, the way his fingers curled around her wrist like he already owned her.
“Fine,” she whispered.
The second the word left her mouth, Storm’s lips crashed against hers. He kissed like he wanted to consume her. Like he had waited for this. His hands tangled in her hair, his body pressing her back against the wall, and she let him. Let him devour her, let herself drown in his touch.
But when his fingers brushed against the bruises hidden beneath her hoodie, everything changed.
Storm stilled.
He pulled back just enough to see, his gaze flickering over the dark smudges along her ribs. The air shifted. The teasing smirk vanished, replaced by something lethal.
His fingers ghosted over the marks, featherlight, as if he could erase them. “Why did you let him hurt you?” His voice was too calm. Toosoft.
Livvy hesitated.
Storm’s fingers tilted her chin up, forcing her to look into his eyes. They were black with fury.
“Livvy,” he growled, barely restrained violence lacing his tone.
Her throat tightened. “If I try to fight, he will hurt my baby.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Storm exhaled slowly, his jaw flexing, his hands clenching at his sides. She didn’t have to look at him to know he was already picturing how he would kill Stanley—how slow, how brutal.
“He’s a dead man,” he murmured, voice quiet, almost gentle—a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him.
“Storm, please—”
He was already gone, striding toward the door. She reached for him, but he didn’t stop.
“He touches you again,” he threw over his shoulder, voice dark, final, “and I’ll make him beg for death.”