Page 11 of Lord of the Dark

I blinked in surprise, letting out an involuntary laugh—short and dry. Of course. It was that simple for him. "And I suppose that always works for you?" I asked with sharp curiosity.

"Let’s just say disappointment isn’t a frequent experience of mine."

I felt the pull, the tension spreading through me like a spark slowly catching fire. "Fine," I said at last. "One harmless coffee."

"Perfect," he replied with a triumphant smile. He moved leisurely toward the door, watching me with a barely perceptible smirk as I gathered my things.

As we walked down the hallway together, I felt the weight ofmy colleagues’ stares. Every pair of eyes tracked our path toward the elevator. My friend and coworker Rachel stood frozen in her office doorway, eyes wide, completely stunned. I met her gaze and gave a slight shrug, as if to say: No idea what’s happening right now.

Russo, meanwhile, strode beside me with an effortless ease that impressed me all over again. As if the whispers and stolen glances meant nothing to him. It was striking—more than I wanted to admit. That indifference to others’ opinions—it fascinated and unsettled me in equal measure. He was a man who always had control, no matter the situation, simply because he refused to give others power over him.

The elevator doors closed softly, and suddenly, the space felt too small. I had known him for only a few hours, and yet Russo had a way of setting every cell in me alight. Here we stood, side by side, the detached professionalism of the meeting gone, leaving behind something else—unspoken but undeniable.

He said nothing, barely moved. But I felt him. Every nuance of his presence. His scent—masculine, understated, yet it invaded my senses as if pulling me toward him. My gaze slid to him as if I’d lost control. Russo leaned against the wall, hands loose in his pockets, as if the cramped elevator were his personal stage. He was calm, not overtly watching, but I knew he was aware of my every movement.

His profile was sharp. The straight nose, the strong jawline that looked even harder in the muted light. I felt my pulse quicken. I wasn’t the type to lose my composure. I was poised, professional. Yet here, in this moment, it was harder to maintain. His proximity was overwhelming, almost suffocating—yet I was drawn to it. Damn it.

Then—without warning—he lifted his head and looked at me. "Isn’t it astonishing," he said, his voice low and steady, "how quickly things can change?"

Goosebumps prickled across my neck. It was a challenge, wrapped in words that seemed harmless but were loaded with meaning.

"Life is full of surprises," I replied, my voice firmer than I felt. "You just have to know how to handle them."

He raised an eyebrow, as if amused by my answer. "And you do? Know how to handle them?"

A smile stole onto my lips despite myself. "Maybe."

There was an undercurrent of challenge in his eyes. He wasn’t like anyone else I knew. There was something in him that made me curious. Russo pushed off the wall, taking a step toward me until our shoulders nearly brushed. "I think you know exactly."

For a moment, I held my breath. He stood so close that any movement would graze him—too close to dismiss as accidental. It wasn’t a mistake. He knew exactly what he was doing. The way he ignored the space between us sent my pulse racing while he remained perfectly composed, as if waiting solely for my reaction.

When the doors opened and the outside world rushed back in, I caught myself with the absurd wish to stay locked in that elevator with him just a few seconds longer.

Four

Fiona Robertson

The café was small and unassuming, an oasis amid the city's relentless pulse. The warm lighting and muted hum of surrounding conversations created an atmosphere that might have been cozy—were it not for the man beside me, whose presence crackled like a live wire in the stillness. I felt the weight of stares as we entered. They weren't looking at me. Their gazes clung to him. Russo commanded attention without intention, his tailored suit a stark contrast against the café's rough-hewn tables and rustic charm. Yet he belonged—not by conforming, but by the sheer force of his presence. He slid into a chair with the ease of a man accustomed to owning every space he entered, his natural authenticity making him fit where he chose to exist.

I couldn't help but admire his composure. As I set my bag down and took my seat, my gaze flickered around us. The waitress passing our table stole a glance at him—as if physically unable not to—before quickly turning away.

For him, this seemed entirely natural. Russo leaned back, his eyes sweeping the café with predatory absorption before locking onto me again. That charged moment when our eyes met transformed this supposedly "harmless" coffee into something far beyond business.

I noticed the waitress staring a beat too long before collecting herself, approaching with professional polish. "What can I get you?" Her eyes darted between us, lingering on Russo as pink flooded her cheeks. Her reaction drew a smirk from me.

"An espresso," he said smoothly. Then his attention shifted tome with such intensity it felt like he'd redirected the room's entire energy. "And for you?"

"A café latte, please," I answered with polite detachment.

The waitress scribbled our order, stealing one last glance at Russo as she left—which he either didn't notice or chose to ignore. His focus remained entirely on me, as if nothing else in the space mattered.

"What?" Russo murmured, catching my smirk.

"Nothing." A sly smile teased my lips.

His eyebrow arched in silent challenge. "Amusing you?"

"Have you noticed how magnetic you are to wandering eyes?" My tone was light, but the subtext was clear: I saw everything.

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