Page 11 of His Ruthless Claim

The silk blouse slips through my fingers as I adjust the neckline on the mannequin. Late afternoon sun streams through the boutique's front window, catching the delicate beadwork I've paired with this season's must-have pencil skirt. The display needs to be perfect - my customers expect nothing less.

A shift in energy ripples through the store. The usual murmur of shoppers browsing through racks falls silent, replaced by a heavy stillness that raises the hair on my neck. In the window's reflection, I watch him enter. Mr. Dangerous from the other night.

This suit is a Brioni, too, custom-fitted to broad shoulders and a lean frame that speaks of carefully controlled power. His movements are too fluid, too precise - a predator disguised in designer wool. I recognize him instantly from Vault, though his presence hits differently in the stark daylight of my boutique.

My fingers still on the mannequin's collar as customers part before him like water around a shark. No one makes eye contact. They busy themselves with phone screens or suddenly find the nearest rack fascinating. Smart people, reading the room.

I turn, my heels clicking against hardwood as I face him. His expression is carved from marble - beautiful but cold. Empty. It's the kind of blank that comes from practice, from needing to hide what lurks beneath. But his eyes... Those are alive with something that makes my pulse skip. Sharp and intent, they lock onto mine across the showroom floor.

The space between us crackles with unspoken tension. I noticed it yesterday, too, and even the night in the Vault. There's something there. Maybe it's attraction because as unnerving as he is, he is beautiful. Maybe it's a battle of wills we don't even need to verbally say.

I refuse to look away first, even as my instincts scream danger. This is my domain. I've built this place from nothing, carved out my own corner of Chicago's elite world. One man - no matter how dangerous - won't make me back down.

He takes another step forward, and I catch a whiff of expensive cologne mixed with something darker. Something that reminds me of gunpowder and secrets.

"Looking for anything specific?" I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the electric current running through my veins. He's close enough now that I catch the glint of a signet ring on his right hand.

"Business attire." His voice is low, controlled. Each word measured like ammunition.

I lead him toward our premium menswear section, hyperaware of his presence behind me. His footsteps are silent despite Italian leather shoes that cost more than most people's rent. The contrast sets off warning bells - men who can afford those shoes usually want everyone to hear them coming.

"These just came in." I gesture to a rack of suits, fighting to maintain my professional demeanor as he invades my space to examine the fabric. His movements are precise, calculated, likeeverything serves a purpose. No wasted motion. "The tailoring is impeccable."

He selects three suits without checking sizes or prices. The efficiency is unnerving - most clients spend ages debating colors and cuts. Not him. It's like watching a machine process data.

"The watch." The words slip out before I can stop them as he reaches for a fourth suit. The vintage Rolex on his wrist catches the light. "It's beautiful. Don't see many of those anymore."

His hand freezes mid-motion. For a fraction of a second, something raw and violent flashes across his face - gone so fast I almost doubt it was there. But in that instant, the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.

"It was my grandfather's." His tone is flat, but there's an edge underneath that raises goosebumps on my arms. "They do not make them anymore." His ice-blue eyes meet mine, and I glimpse something behind them that makes my breath catch - not emptiness, but carefully contained chaos.

I step back, a professional smile firmly in place. "I'll start a fitting room for you."

The moment breaks. His mask of indifference returns so seamlessly it's like it never slipped. But I felt it - that crack in his armor. And something tells me very few people live to see what lies beneath.

The bell above the door chimes as Cassie Cappalletti enters - Gucci bag swinging, wedding ring flashing. Her usual confidence evaporates mid-step. Her face drops when she spots him, leaving her stiff and wide-eyed.

I pretend to fold a stack of silk shirts, watching their reflection in the triple mirrors. She knows him. More importantly, she fears him. The way her throat works as she swallows, how her fingers clutch her purse strap until her knuckles are clenched - it's the instinctive terror of prey recognizing an apex predator.

He doesn't even look at her. Just continues examining the suits with that same mechanical precision, like she's less than the dust on his shoes. His dismissal somehow feels more threatening than any acknowledgment would have been.

Cassie backs toward the door, stilettos stumbling on the hardwood she usually glides across. The bell chimes again as she flees, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume and raw fear.

I add this interaction to my mental catalog of Chicago's power players, filing it alongside whispered conversations at The Vault and the subtle shifts of influence I've witnessed over years of dressing the city's elite. The way she reacted... I've only seen that level of visceral fear once before.

Something about him tugs at my memory - a name mentioned in hushed tones from the other night maybe. But it slips away like smoke when I try to grasp it, leaving behind only the certainty that I'm playing with fire.

His reflection catches mine in the mirror. That icy gaze pins me in place, and I know he saw everything. Knew I was watching. The corner of his mouth ticks up - not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment that sends shivers down my spine.

I force myself to keep folding, even as my skin prickles under his attention. The silk slides cool between my fingers, such a contrast to the heat building in my veins.

But if Mr. Dangerous wants something, he's going to have to ask for it.

"I'll take these," he says, coming up far too close behind me when I don't look up at him. It's like he's testing me, and I'm not sure if I'm passing or failing.

"Great." I turn, tipping my head up to look at him. I'm tall for a woman and still, he's leaning over me, those eyes boring into mine. "I'll ring you."

I step away from him, feeling the loss acutely, but my lungs can breathe again. Being too close to him felt like I was stuck in his orbit, my gravity reorienting until all I could focus on was him.

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