Chapter 6
519 Words
Elliot
The elevator doors slid shut.
Elliot Blackwood didn’t move.
For a full five seconds, he stood alone as the car descended, the echo of her laughter—girls’ night, drinks—still ringing in his head like a challenge thrown deliberately at his feet.
Possession wasn’t something he indulged lightly.
But neither was retreat.
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Frank,” he said the second the call connected.
“Yes, sir.”
“I want Celina Sheppard followed. Discreetly. No contact. I want eyes only.”
A pause. Professional. Unquestioning.
“Understood.”
“She’s going out tonight. Seven-ish. I want a car ready for me at nineteen hundred.”
“Destination?”
Elliot’s mouth tightened. “You’ll find out before I do.”
He ended the call without waiting for confirmation.
This wasn’t impulse anymore.
This was intent.
The shower did nothing to cool him.
Water sluiced over his shoulders, steam fogging the glass as his mind replayed her—defiant smile, sharp tongue, the way she didn’t yield space even when the world told her to.
She didn’t belong to anyone.
And that was precisely the problem.
He dressed in black—tailored, severe—checking his watch as his phone buzzed.
Frank.
“She’s heading downtown,” Frank said. “Club district. One of yours.”
Elliot closed his eyes briefly.
Of course it was.
Ownership layered over obsession like a tightening noose.
Another call came through as he fastened his cufflinks.
“Elliot,” his brother’s voice drawled. “You busy?”
Sam.
Insufferably calm. Irritatingly perfect.
“I have somewhere to be,” Elliot said.
“Good,” Sam replied. “Meet me there. Family matter.”
Elliot stilled. “Now?”
“Yes, afraid it can't wait. Which club?”
Sam chuckled. “The one with the skyboxes and the best sightlines.”
Elliot exhaled slowly.
Of course.
The club pulsed beneath him—music vibrating through bone and glass, bodies packed tight under strobing light.
Elliot stood in the private skybox, one-way glass giving him a full, unobstructed view of the floor below.
And there she was.
Celina.
Laughing with her friends. Hair loose. Body moving with the music, unguarded, radiant.
His chest tightened.
She didn’t belong here. Not because she didn’t fit—but because everyone could see her. Touch her. Want her.
His jaw locked.
“Still staring like you’re about to kill someone,” Sam said behind him.
Elliot turned.
Sam Blackwood was everything the media loved—tall, lethal, casually devastating. Navy SEAL discipline wrapped in dangerous charm.
“Why are you here?” Elliot asked.
Sam’s expression sobered. “David’s worried. Press caught wind of something offshore. Dad wants us aligned.”
Elliot nodded absently, gaze drifting back to the floor.
Sam followed it.
“Oh,” Sam murmured. “That explains the murder face.”
“Don’t,” Elliot warned.
Sam raised his hands. “Relax. I’ll let you brood.”
He clapped Elliot’s shoulder and turned to leave.
The door closed.
Elliot scanned the crowd again.
And froze.
Celina was gone.
- Writer
