Page 14 of His Ruthless Obsession

I double-check that my doors are locked. The night feels suddenly colder, darker. My hands shake as I try to pull up the number for roadside assistance.

But before I can, a sleek black car glides into the lot, its headlights cutting through the darkness. My breath catches. The passenger window slides down with a soft whir, revealing Nerio's sharp profile illuminated by the dashboard lights.

"Car trouble?" His voice carries that mix of amusement and authority even through my closed door.

I grip my phone tighter. "Just a dead battery. I can handle it."

"At three in the morning?" He arches an eyebrow. "Get in."

"I'll call roadside assistance-"

"Which will take an hour, minimum." His gray eyes lock onto mine. "Don't be difficult, little dove."

The nickname sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold. I glance down at the dashboard — which has not magically lit up — then back at him.

The smart move would be to decline. To maintain that professional distance I've been trying so hard to keep.

But something in his steady gaze makes me feel... protected. Which is ridiculous given who he is, what he does.

"Jazz." There's an edge to his voice now. Not quite a command, but close. "Get in the car."

I bite my lip, warring with myself for another moment before pushing open my driver door and climbing into his car. The door opens with barely a sound, and I slide onto butter-soft leather seats.

"Your address?" He pulls away from the curb, one hand resting casually on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. Why is it sexy when he shifts the damn thing?

"The Morrison on 8th." I try not to notice how the interior smells like expensive cologne and leather, or how the dim lighting softens his usually harsh features.

"Good choice. Secure building." His thumb traces a pattern on the steering wheel. "Though the neighborhood could be better."

"The rent fits my budget." I turn to look out the window, watching familiar streets slip by. "And I like having a rooftop garden."

"Hmm." The sound rumbles from his chest, neither approval nor criticism. Just acknowledgement.

The city lights paint shadows across his face as we drive, and I find myself stealing glances at his profile. Even at this hour, he looks perfectly put together - not a hair out of place, his suit still crisp.

And then I find myself watching as Nerio's hand moves with practiced ease. His fingers brush against mine where they rest on the center console, sending electricity shooting up my arm. I pull back, tucking my hand into my lap.

"Jumpy tonight." His voice carries that dangerous edge of amusement.

"Just tired." I focus on the passing streetlights, trying to ignore how the small space amplifies his presence.

He downshifts for a red light, his knuckles grazing my thigh. My breath catches. The touch feels deliberate this time.

"You work too hard." His eyes stay fixed on the road, but a slight smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Always the last to leave."

"Someone has to make sure everything runs smoothly."

"And you do it so well." His hand returns to the gear shift, fingers wrapping around it in a way that draws my attention. "But I wonder what drives that dedication."

I shift in my seat, hyper-aware of every movement. "Just doing my job."

Fuck. How often am I repeating that now? Who am I trying to convince? Him…or me?

"Is that all?" The car accelerates smoothly, and his hand brushes mine again as he shifts. This time, his fingers linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"Yes," I squeak out.

Heat blooms across my skin from where he touched. The leather seat feels too warm, the air too thick. I cross my legs, trying to create distance in the confined space, but it only makes me more conscious of his proximity.

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