Smoke & Gold
Lena
Rain hammered against the windshield hard enough to blur the city into streaks of neon and shadow.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and ignored the warning light flashing on the dash of my battered ute. Again.
Perfect timing.
The engine coughed as I pulled into the underground parking garage beneath the Ashbourne Hotel — the kind of place where rich men ruined lives over hundred-year whiskey and five-minute conversations.
I definitely did not belong here.
My steel-capped boots hit the concrete as I climbed out, tugging my black leather jacket tighter against the cold. The security guard at the private elevator gave me one look — messy dark ponytail, grease stains on my knuckles, exhausted expression — and immediately frowned.
"Staff entrance is around back."
I smiled without warmth. "Good thing I'm not staff."
His jaw tightened.
I held up the catering invoice before he could argue further. Emergency refrigeration repair. Penthouse level. Apparently the billionaire owner's imported wine cellar was dying, and because my boss was an asshole, that somehow became my midnight problem.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt endless.
I hated rich people.
They looked at people like me and saw background noise.
Disposable.
Replaceable.
The elevator doors slid open directly into a private suite bigger than my entire house back in Briarvale. Marble floors. Black steel accents. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Ashbourne lit up like a galaxy.
And blood.
There was blood on the floor.
I stopped dead.
Not a little blood.
A lot.
"Well," a deep voice drawled from somewhere inside the suite, rough as gravel and expensive sin, "you took your time."
Every instinct I had screamed danger.
A man stepped out of the shadows wearing a charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Tattoos crawled beneath the fabric. One hand pressed against his ribs where blood soaked through the shirt.
Tall. Broad. Beautiful in the kind of way storms were beautiful.
The kind of man women wrote warnings about and ignored anyway.
Dark eyes pinned me in place.
Assessing.
Calculating.
Predatory.
"You're not the refrigeration guy," I said carefully.
"No."
The door behind me clicked shut.
My pulse kicked hard.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
Men like him noticed everything.
"I can leave," I said.
"You could try."
There it was.
The threat.
Soft. Controlled. Worse because of it.
I should've been terrified.
Instead, heat curled low in my stomach, sharp and unwelcome.
He watched me notice him. Watched me react. His mouth tilted slightly like he enjoyed it.
Arrogant bastard.
"You're bleeding all over the marble," I said. "Pretty sure rich people cry about that."
A low laugh rumbled from his chest.
"Cute."
"I'm serious."
"You usually insult armed men?"
My eyes flicked downward.
Gun.
Holstered beneath his jacket.
Right.
Fantastic.
"I usually don't find armed men standing in luxury penthouses bleeding to death," I shot back. "New experience for me."
For the first time, something genuine flickered across his face.
Amusement.
"Name."
"No."
One dark brow lifted.
"You always this difficult?"
"You always kidnap tradespeople?"
A pause.
Then — unbelievably — he smirked.
God help me.
"I didn't kidnap you," he said. "You walked in."
I folded my arms. "And now the door's locked."
"Smart girl."
My temper flared instantly. "Don't call me girl."
Silence settled between us.
Heavy.
Electric.
He studied me like he was trying to solve something.
Then his expression shifted subtly as his gaze dropped to my hands.
Grease stains.
Small cuts across my knuckles.
Calluses.
Working hands.
"Mechanic?" he asked.
"Refrigeration."
"Same difference."
"It really isn't."
Another almost-smile.
I hated that I noticed.
He swayed slightly.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Enough for me to realize just how much blood he'd lost.
"You need stitches," I said before I could stop myself.
"I've had worse."
"Cool. You'll still bleed out."
His eyes narrowed.
"Why do you care?"
"I don't." I sighed sharply. "But if you die while I'm here, I feel like that becomes my problem."
A rough chuckle left him.
Then he winced.
Definitely bad.
I glanced toward the massive kitchen. "You have a first aid kit?"
"Bathroom."
I muttered a curse under my breath and shoved past him before I could rethink the stupidity of this entire situation.
Up close he smelled like expensive cologne, whiskey, smoke—
—and blood.
My pulse stumbled.
He was too close.
Too big.
Too dangerous.
Every nerve in my body reacted to him.
I hated that most of all.
"You always this bossy?" he asked behind me.
"Only when men are actively dying."
I found the bathroom, grabbed the absurdly luxurious first aid kit, and returned to the living area.
He hadn't moved far.
Still watching me.
Always watching.
"Sit down," I ordered.
To my surprise, he obeyed.
Mostly because he looked seconds from collapsing.
I knelt in front of him and carefully lifted the edge of his ruined shirt.
The wound along his ribs was deep.
Bullet graze.
My stomach tightened.
"Jesus Christ."
"I've had worse."
"You already said that. It was stupid the first time too."
His gaze darkened.
Not angry.
Interested.
Like nobody spoke to him this way.
Too bad.
I disinfected the wound.
He didn't flinch.
Not even once.
That was somehow worse.
"You got a name?" he asked quietly.
I focused on wrapping the bandage. "Lena."
"Lena," he repeated slowly, like tasting it.
My skin heated.
Annoying.
"And you?"
A pause.
Then—
"Damien Vale."
The name hit me immediately.
Every newspaper in the country knew that name.
Billionaire investor.
Hotel empire owner.
Corporate phantom.
Rumored criminal.
Dangerous.
My hands stopped moving.
His eyes locked onto mine.
"There it is," he murmured. "Recognition."
"You're kidding."
"No."
"You're Damien Vale."
"Yes."
"The Damien Vale."
His mouth curved slightly. "Should I be offended?"
I stared at him.
This man owned half the city.
And someone had shot him.
Honestly?
That tracked.
"You should probably go to a hospital," I muttered.
"No hospitals."
"Because?"
"Because I said so."
I sat back on my heels and looked up at him. "You always this controlling?"
"Yes."
At least he was honest.
Rain battered the windows behind him while tension coiled thick between us.
His gaze dragged slowly over my face.
My throat.
My mouth.
Possessive.
Intent.
The kind of look that stripped skin from bone.
My breath caught.
"Careful," he said softly.
"About what?"
His eyes held mine.
"Me."
And somehow…
that felt less like a warning—
and more like a promise.
