Page 27 of His Ruthless Claim

"You're crossing a line no one does." My grip tightens on her wrist, not enough to hurt but enough to remind her of my strength.

"Am I?" Her fingers find my tie, tugging me closer. "Or am I just the first person to see past your perfect control?"

The words hit like a physical blow. I press her against the counter, caging her with my body. She's right - she sees too much, knows too much. The logical part of my brain screams to eliminate the threat.

Instead, I find myself memorizing the curve of her throat, the slight part of her lips. She represents everything I've trained myself to avoid - emotion, connection, weakness. Yet I can't stop the way my body responds to her proximity, the way my carefully constructed walls crack under her knowing gaze.

"You should leave." Her words lack conviction, fingers still twisted in my tie.

I should. Every calculated instinct screams to put distance between us. But my body remains caged around hers, drinking in details I've cataloged over weeks of observation - the precise arch of her brows, the way her pulse jumps beneath bronze skin, the dangerous intelligence behind those amber eyes.

"I know." I release her wrist but don't step back. The loss of contact leaves my fingers cold. "You're a liability."

"And you're a control freak who can't handle not having all the answers." Her smile turns sharp, knowing. "That's why you'll be back."

She's right. The realization settles like lead in my stomach. Ever since I saw her, I couldn't stay away. Worse - she let me continue, gathering her own intelligence while I thought I held the advantage.

"When I return-"

"Not if?" She smooths my tie, the gesture oddly intimate. "Careful, Mr. Mantione. Your mask is slipping."

The urge to grab her hand, to feel her pulse race beneath my fingers again, nearly overwhelms my control. Instead, I force myself to step back. The space between us feels wrong - too empty, too cold.

"Goodnight, Skye."

Her knowing smile follows me to the door. I don't look back as I step into Chicago's night, but my hands betray me. Instead of reaching for my watch - that familiar anchor of control - my fingers flex with phantom sensation. The memory of her skin, the heat of her body, the dangerous curves of her smile.

For the first time in fifteen years, the weight of my mother's watch feels foreign against my wrist. The metal no longer grounds me. Instead, my mind catalogs the exact texture ofSkye's pulse, the precise shade of amber in her eyes, the calculated grace of her movements.

I've traded one obsession for another. The realization should terrify me. Instead, it burns like whiskey in my veins - dangerous, intoxicating, impossible to resist.

14

SKYE

Iadjust the silk Valentino dress on the mannequin, my fingers smoothing over the delicate fabric. Through the boutique's floor-to-ceiling windows, I catch another glimpse of Mickey - one of Luca's soldiers that I coerced into talking to me - pacing past for the third time this hour. His dark suit and rigid posture stick out among the usual Fashion Week crowd.

The bell chimes as Sophia Russo enters, her Louboutins clicking against the marble floor. Wife of a Mantione capo. She never shopped here before last week.

"Skye, darling." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes as she air-kisses my cheeks. "I simply must see that McQueen blazer you posted."

I lead her to our new arrivals, hyperaware of how her gaze keeps sliding to me rather than the clothes. The whispers started days ago - about the ice prince's new fascination. About me. I'm not sure what happened, but it seems to be slowly leaking through the city.

"Perfect choice for the casino opening," I say, holding up the blazer. "The structured shoulders will photograph beautifully."

"You'll be there, won't you?" She runs manicured fingers over the embellished lapel. "I heard Luca has his eye on you."

The way she emphasizes his name makes my spine stiffen. I maintain my professional smile. "Fashion Week keeps me quite busy."

Two more wives drift in - both from prominent Mantione-connected families. They browse the racks with practiced nonchalance, but their sharp glances tell me they're here to assess more than merchandise.

I direct my assistant - the temporary help I've hired for the busy week - to bring out champagne - a boutique tradition during Fashion Week. But now it feels like a chess move in a game I'm still learning to play. Outside, another of Luca's men takes up position across the street.

The weight of unspoken power dynamics fills my store like expensive perfume. These women's cautious respect, their calculating observation - it all traces back to him. To whatever this thing is between us that I can't seem to resist, even knowing it's changing everything.

The bell chimes again and a made man swaggers in, all Italian charm in his tailored Armani. I don't recognize him, but I can instantly tell he's a soldier who thinks too highly of himself. His dark eyes scan the boutique before landing on me.

"Ladies." He nods to the wives, who return varying degrees of acknowledgment.

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