Page 9 of Lord of the Dark

I entered my office, closed the door behind me, and sank into my chair, exhausted. The words on the documents open on my laptop blurred before my eyes. My thoughts had become uncontrollable, drifting relentlessly. Russo had completely thrown me off balance, and that infuriated me. Normally, I was someone who maintained control—over my work, my emotions,my life. I dragged a hand through my hair, inhaling deeply. It was just a meeting, I repeated to myself.

But there was more. That unspoken tension between us, the way he’d watched me during my presentation—I couldn’t have imagined it.

A soft click at the door made me startle. Without knocking, the door pushed open—and Alexander Russo stepped inside as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He paused for a moment, the overhead lights casting sharp angles across his cheekbones and jawline. His eyes settled on me, and something unspoken flared between us—intangible yet unmistakable. He moved through the room with effortless ease, his gaze sweeping over the furniture and windows as if calmly measuring my domain. My office was spacious, airy, almost impressive. But with him here, it suddenly felt small. As if his presence alone had shrunk everything else until only he and I remained.

My thoughts stumbled. He looked good. Too good. The dark gray suit fit like it was tailored for him, the sleeves revealing strong, well-groomed hands. Unconsciously, my eyes tracked his steps, tracing the breadth of his shoulders, the lean taper of his waist—the interplay of power and control in every movement. It was ridiculous—completely inappropriate—and yet I couldn’t stop the shift inside me the moment he’d entered.

When his gaze finally locked onto mine again, it hit me so directly I held my breath.

"I hope I'm not disturbing," he said with a charming smile.

"You are," I noted, a thread of indignation in my voice. "Most people knock before entering." I watched as his gaze swept over my office, absorbing every minute detail. His eyes lingered briefly on the photo of Carter on my desk, but he said nothing.

Then he turned back to me. "I'm not like most—you must’ve noticed that by now." His tone carried a self-assurance that erased everything else in the room. "And I got the impressionyou appreciate directness."

I arched a brow, my surprise barely concealed. "Appreciate directness? What gave you that idea?"

"The way you ran that meeting," he said smoothly, his eyes never leaving mine. "No half-measures. Precise, decisive. You like control—just like I do."

The way he said it left no room for doubt. A statement, not a question.

"And you find that remarkable?" I kept my voice cool.

"Remarkable enough that I decided to discuss it in person." His eyes narrowed fractionally. "People like us don’t cross paths often."

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms, fighting the tremor his words sent through me. "People like us? Sounds like you’ve already analyzed me."

His gaze wandered my office again, as if this conversation were secondary while he mapped every corner of the space. "You’re someone who doesn’t waste time on uncertainty. Someone who’d rather take control than relinquish it." His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I felt laid bare. "But also someone drawn to real challenges."

"And you think you’re such a challenge?" I wasn’t impressed. Not yet.

He smiled—that dangerous, controlled smile that never reached his eyes—then sank casually into the chair across from my desk. "I think you know the answer to that as well as I do." His gaze drifted idly, as if he had all the time in the world to dissect every detail. "Or would you rather complicate it?"

"I’m not following, Mr. Russo." My voice was ice. "How could a purely professional relationship become complicated?" Something told me this wasn’t just about business. I clung to the last shreds of professional distance.

Unfazed, he continued surveying my office like a man taskedwith uncovering every secret it held. Finally, his attention settled on the photo on my desk—Carter and I, smiling, the perfect façade.

"An interesting picture," he remarked without changing expression. "The boyfriend?"

"The boyfriend," I repeated with a thin smile meant as a warning—he was treading on thin ice.

"Fascinating how happy people can be with lives that seem so... perfectly staged," he mused, his eyes lingering on Carter’s photo. "But eventually…" He paused, as if weighing his words. "...you start wondering if something beneath that façade is crumbling. Maybe the challenge is missing. Or worse—maybe it’s all just about maintaining the illusion."

His words coiled unease in my chest, as if he knew more than he let on. The tension thickened. He was dismantling my armor without lifting a finger.

"And you?" I countered, holding his gaze. "What are you hiding?"

Russo’s lips curled into an amused yet no less dangerous smile as he leaned back slightly. "What I’m hiding?" He savored the question, eyes glinting with suppressed amusement—and something darker, more inscrutable. "Do you really think I’d reveal that so easily?" A deliberate pause, his stare piercing. "It’s not what I conceal, Ms. Robertson. It’s what others try to hide—and how they react when I drag it into the light."

He held my gaze, unblinking, the challenge in his words unmistakable. "Some things only become visible under pressure. And I’ve never minded turning up the heat... when necessary."

I studied him now, parsing his intent. His words weren’t just a challenge—they were a game, one he seemed adept at playing. But I wasn’t here for games. That wasn’t my style.

"Turning up the heat, then," I echoed, my tone cool but curious. "And what do you hope to achieve? That someone cracks? Thatthey... reveal themselves?"

He paused, as if relishing the moment before answering. "Not everyone breaks. Some thrive under pressure. That’s what’s interesting, Fiona."

My name in his mouth felt intimate, but I refused to let it unsettle me. "And you want to find out which category I fall into?" I asked with a faint smirk, trying to diffuse the tension.

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