Page 64 of His Ruthless Claim

"Speaking from experience?" The words slip out before I can stop them.

Jazz's full lips curve into a sad smile. "Different man, same story. Though mine was more obvious about his demons." She takes a long sip of her drink. "Here's what I learned the hard way - loving someone dangerous isn't the problem. It's letting them think their world gives them the right to play games with yours."

"Preach." Kendra raises her glass.

"But Jazz and Nerio are happy," Mikayla offers softly. "If you miss Luca, maybe you should talk to him."

Jazz nods slowly. "I know what he did didn't make a lot of sense to you, but it did to him. Everything made sense until you came along and did what you do best - challenged him. Made him question things he took for granted." She turns to me. "The question is: can you forgive the manipulation to see if what's growing beneath it is real?"

The truth in her words hits harder than the whiskey burning my throat. "I miss him," I admit. "The real him. The one who'd let his guard down when we were alone."

"Then maybe it's time to stop punishing both of you," Jazz says. "Make him earn your trust back, sure. But don't throwaway something real just because the beginning was built on lies."

The energy in The Vault shifts like a current through water. The hair on my arms rises before I even process why. My body knows he's here - it's always known him.

I turn and the sight of Luca cuts through the manufactured haze of club lights and whiskey. He stands at the VIP entrance, a dark figure carved from marble and shadow. His presence draws attention like a blade draws blood - sharp, inevitable, dangerous. The perfect cut of his suit can't hide the predator beneath. Those ice-blue eyes lock onto mine across the space between us, and for the first time, I see cracks in his mask.

His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath skin that seems paler than I remember. Dark circles shadow his eyes, barely noticeable to anyone who hasn't spent hours memorizing his face. His hands - those elegant, lethal hands - flex once before settling into forced stillness at his sides.

The Rolex on his wrist catches the strobing lights, and I remember how he used to check it compulsively when anxious, the only tell in his perfect composure. He's checking it now, a quick glance down that speaks volumes.

Even with the obvious strain, he's magnificent. Powerful. But it's the subtle signs of struggle that steal my breath - the way his shoulders carry tension instead of their usual fluid grace, how his eyes hold something raw beneath their usual frost. He's fighting himself, fighting his nature, and the evidence of that battle makes him more beautiful than any amount of perfect control ever did.

The crowd parts around him instinctively as he takes a step forward. Not from fear - though there's always fear when it comes to Luca Mantione - but from the sheer gravitational pull of his presence. He's always been a force of nature dressed in Italian wool and carefully constructed walls.

But now, watching him, I see those walls cracking. And what bleeds through isn't weakness - it's humanity.

Jazz's hand squeezes my arm. "You good?"

I barely hear her. The club fades to background noise, leaving only Luca in sharp focus. His presence pulls at something deep in my chest, an ache I've tried to ignore these past weeks.

He takes another step forward, then stops. The slight tilt of his head betrays his internal battle - the predator wanting to claim versus the man learning restraint. His fingers brush that silver Rolex again, a tell that makes my heart clench. Even now, he's fighting his nature for me.

He is trying, letting vulnerability bleed through his careful control. The shadows under his eyes speak of sleepless nights. The slight dishevel of his perfect suit tells stories of restless pacing. Even the way he holds himself - taut as a bowstring - screams of barely contained emotion.

Jazz is right. I have to decide if I'm willing to forgive him. I either need to talk to him or cut us both free.

As if coming to his own conclusion, he turns away, each movement precise and measured. But I catch the tremor in his hands, the way his shoulders carry defeat instead of their usual deadly grace. He's giving me what I asked for - space, choice, freedom from his manipulations.

And watching him walk away, I realize I don't want any of it.

My legs move before conscious thought kicks in. The whiskey burns forgotten on the table as I stand, drawn toward him like gravity finally winning a long fight. Because that's what this has always been - an inevitable pull between two forces that were meant to collide.

"Skye," Jazz calls after me, but her voice sounds distant.

Luca heads for the door, not seeing me yet. In the strobing lights, his profile could have been carved from marble - beautiful, cold, untouchable. But I've felt the heat beneath thatfrost. I've tasted the mint on his breath, traced the scars on his torso, witnessed the moments when control slipped and something raw blazed through.

And I'm done pretending I don't need all of him - the monster and the man, the manipulation and the truth, the perfect facade and the beautiful cracks beneath.

31

LUCA

The thrum of bass from The Vault's speakers vibrates through my bones as I scan the crowd. My fingers brush against cool metal - my mother's watch, a habit I can't shake when my control slips. Three weeks without Skye and the world's lost its edges, everything blurred and meaningless.

I turn to leave, refusing to subject myself to another night of searching faces in the crowd. That's when I see her.

The lights catch on her sleek black waves, amber eyes bright as she talks with her friends. Her hand lifts a glass to deep red lips, nails painted a shimmering gold that matches the flecks in her irises. The sight of her hits like a physical blow.

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