THE UNDERBOSS’S FORBIDDEN CLAIM

Vienna. Three months earlier I sat alone at the far end of the bar, wearing a midnight-black sultry silk dress that I had borrowed from a friend. Tonight, I intended to live freely. Not as Elara Voss, the dutiful, invisible daughter being sold to the highest bidder in a political boardroom but as Lena, a wild and reckless young lady. I had less than nine hours to make the most of my freedom. I closed my eyes, taking in the soft ambience of the bar. I felt them before I saw them. Their rich and expensive cologne mix filled the air. My eyes flew open, only for them to land on the man before me. He wore a black Armani suit that showed his masculine figure. He had broad shoulders. Sharp jawlines. Clear and attractive neck muscles. And dark eyes that lazily swept the room. His presence was powerful and captivating. He sat down two seats away. He simply ordered a glass of whiskey and stared at the amber liquid like he was waiting for it to disappoint him. I tried not to look but I couldn't help noting the details: large, still, and controlled hands; a dangerous tension along his sharp jawline; and the subtle, hyper-alert respect the bartender offered him. It wasn't the kind of service you gave a big tipper; it was the kind you gave a man who could burn the building down. Instinctively, I straightened in my seat without even thinking. “Posture. Chin up. Shoulders back. A Voss is watched even when they believe they are not.” My father's voice, hammered into my muscle memory over two decades of stiff dinners, executed the command automatically. I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to drop. Tonight, my father wasn’t going to have his way. I took a deep breath and turned away from him, signaling the bartender. "Can I get Vodka cranberry?” I asked. As the bartender reached for a glass, ready to prepare my order, my throat constricted. Wine, Elara. If you must drink, at least display some sophistication. His voice echoed again. "Actually..." I swallowed the old shame wrapping around my chest. No. You’re Lena tonight. My voice countered. “Can I get St-Germain and soda with a splash of white wine?” The bartender offered a sweet, knowing smile and prepared my drink. A tiny, quiet triumph flared in my chest. It was my very first victory–although ridiculously small, it was mine, and I was proud. "You've corrected your posture four times since I sat down.” A deep, quiet voice came. I blinked, looking in the direction of the voice. The man wasn't looking at me, his gaze was still on the glass. His voice was a low, rough baritone, almost bored. "Whoever taught you to do that isn't in this room,” he added quietly. A soft, breathless laugh tore out of me. The sound loosened by the alcohol–it was foreign. I hadn't heard the sound in years. "That's an oddly specific thing to notice about a stranger." "I notice a great many things." He turned his head, his dark eyes flecked with gold locking onto mine with an intensity that stripped the air right out of my lungs. “Dark," I murmured, entranced as I stared into them. “With flecks of gold. Like fire at night.” A quiet beat passed. His gaze lingered on my face for a while. There was a dangerous heat flaring in those golden flecks. “Is that what you see?” “It's what's there,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, raspy register. His eyes together with the alcohol were doing a lot of things to me. Things I couldn’t describe and I wondered if he felt it too. A faint, slow curve touched the corner of his lip and damn, it was a dangerous and devastating expression on his beauteous face. He didn’t say a word. Rather, he picked up his glass of whiskey, stood up from his seat, and closed the space between us. The sheer size of him, combined with his expensive scent of cedar and musk, altered my reasoning. I suddenly felt overwhelmed and dizzy. He slid smoothly onto the empty stool next to mine, closing the distance completely that the fabric of his dark suit brushed against my bare skin. A heat spike shot down my spine. “And what else is there?” He asked, his voice dropping an octave, wrapping around us like fine silk. “Besides fire in the dark?” “A secret,” I said, leaning my cheek against my hand as I stared up at him through my lashes. The St-Germain was making me far too bold, and I didn't care. “You look like a man keeping a great deal of them.” “You don't say,” he muttered, taking a slow sip of his whiskey without breaking eye contact. “Everyone has secrets. Some are just better at keeping them than others. What's yours?” “Tonight? I'm a free woman,” I murmured, taking another sip of my drink. “Devoid of any past or future. I'm just me...” He hummed an answer, giving a slow nod. His rough low voice sent goosebumps all over my skin. And it didn't help that they were visible. “And you?” I asked, raising a brow. “What's your secret?” “Secret,” he repeated smoothly, a dark and heavy spark flashing in his eyes. “The less we know, the better for either of us.” Hmm, mystery. A sultry smile pulled on my lips. I like him. I glanced down at the clear glass in his large, calloused finger, then back up to those mesmerising eyes that keep sending my brain into an override. Whiskey, I named him silently in my head. Dark, smooth, expensive, and easy to get drunk on. I let out a breathless, intoxicated laugh. “Fair enough, stranger. No past, no future, no names. That sounds quite like a dangerous game to play.” The temperature in the room dropped dangerously, the air crackled with tension. The quiet bar seemed to fade into dark shadows around us, leaving only the heat radiating between our stools. Slowly and deliberately, he reached out, his long fingers brushing against my wrist. The touch was scorching, sending delicious shivers down my spine and pooling low in my stomach. His thumb made a slow, possessive sweep over my racing pulse. “You're dangerously bold tonight,” he murmured, bringing my wrist to his lips. “And I want to kiss you.” My lips parted at his touch, a soft breath escaping me. “I only have tonight,” I replied, leaning into his space, every cell in my body at alert and on fire. The alcohol made me reckless, but the look in his eyes made me desperate. They were hooded and wild with desire, fueling mine. I could take him right there and then. “And I don't want to spend another second sitting at this bar.” I breathed. “Take me away.” His dark eyes narrowed, the gold flecks glowing with raw predator light. “Room?” “Fourth floor. Room 412,” I breathed. I couldn’t believe that I was giving a stranger my room number all for a booty call. Elara Voss would have called it quits but Lena wouldn't. She would give in to her desires. He stood up instantly, leaving a wad of cash on the counter without looking almost as if he were waiting for this moment. He took my hand, wrapping his large, warm fingers around mine, and pulled us out of the bar. The urgency was wild and undeniable. We rode in silence standing next to each other with heavy breaths. The enclosed space felt like a pressure cooker. His scent clouded my senses until I was dizzy. Suddenly, the elevator ride felt too long. We filed out into the quiet, carpeted hallway the instant the doors opened, his hands still holding mine. I could barely get my key card out of my clutch, my hands and body trembling from cocktail and pure need. We –I stumbled down the corridor, successfully making it to my room door. Just before I could swipe the card and open the door, his hands clamped onto my waist and spun around so that I was facing him. With effortless strength, he hoisted me up right against the door. A quiet, shocked gasp left my lips as his mouth crashed onto mine. He kissed me with so much hunger as if he had been starving for ages. My legs immediately went around his waist, my bare back pressing against the cold wood of the door as he lifted me higher, taking absolute control. Our mouths opened, exploring each other while his large hands roamed my sides. My hands flew to his chest, taking in the hardness of them. His hand gripped my waist, eliminating an inch of space between us, making me feel the heat of his hardness against my belly. That tore a moan out of me. Blindly, while wrapped around his frame, I managed to reach behind him and tap the keyboard against the reader. I couldn’t risk someone walking on us. The lock beeped open. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and in two strides backed me against the wall, his hands continuing their beautiful assault. He pressed his hips against me and I lost every ounce of control with more heat pooling between my thighs. Whiskey's lips left mine and without hesitation, they landed on the soft spot between my jaw and neck. Another whimper escaped me. I wasn't sure how long I could hold up. “To the bed,” I whispered. In a flash, we were both in bed, most of our clothes missing as we surrendered ourselves to the fever of the night. It was a blur of tangled sheets, wild and possessive touches inside the only space I had ever owned. Bound by the anonymity of it all, we moved together until the world outside the room ceased to exist. When the fever finally subsided, I lay tangled in the sheets beside him, my head resting on his broad chest, listening to the soft rhythm of his heart, willing myself to fall asleep. *** Pre-dawn light filtered through a gap in the curtains, casting cool gray shadows over the bed. My vision blurred as I blinked away sleep. The memory of last night brought a hot flush to my cheeks, but reality was already clawing its way back into my throat. I stood up quietly, picked up my clothes from the floor, and dressed in the dim light. Before grabbing my bag, I stood at the edge of the bed and looked down at him one last time. He was sleeping on his back, one heavy arm thrown across the spot where I had been, his sharp jaw finally unclenched. Unclasping the thin silver chain from my wrist– the nervous-habit bracelet I'd worn since seventeen– I set it quietly on the pillow beside his head. Why are you leaving that? I thought. But even I had no answer. I stepped into the crisp Vienna morning. The air was cold enough to sting, the sky the color of a held breath. I inhaled it like it was the last free thing I would ever be given–in a way, it was. “I will never see him again,” I muttered to no one in particular. “That is the only reason any of that was allowed to happen.” Three months later… I stood at the grand staircase of the Caruso mansion in a white dress that was not my choice, about to meet the man I had been sold to. The door opens and the world–quietly, irrevocably–ends. Because standing beside my wheelchair-bound husband-to-be, looking at me with an expression I cannot read and a jaw made of things I should not remember–is Whiskey.