Crossed Lines
1146 Words
Lena
By Friday, I had almost convinced myself Damien Vale had been a weird, dangerous hallucination brought on by exhaustion and poor life choices.
Almost.
Then my boss called me into his office.
“Need you to take the Vale contract.”
I stopped in the doorway. “Absolutely not.”
Greg barely looked up from his computer. “Didn’t ask.”
I folded my arms. “You can’t seriously expect me to keep working for that man.”
That finally got his attention.
Greg frowned. “What exactly happened up there?”
Too much.
Not enough.
A six-foot-four problem with dark eyes and blood on his hands.
“Nothing,” I muttered.
Greg leaned back in his chair. “Whatever it was, he specifically requested you.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“He called personally.” Greg whistled softly. “Do you know how insane that is? Damien Vale doesn’t call people. He has assistants for his assistants.”
I stared at him.
“He requested me?”
“By name.”
Something dangerous unfurled low in my stomach.
Not fear.
Worse.
Interest.
I hated it immediately.
“I’m not doing it.”
Greg snorted. “Lena, the man owns half the city and just offered us a maintenance contract worth more than this business makes in two years.”
My jaw tightened.
Of course he did.
Money as leverage.
Classic rich man behavior.
“He’s manipulative.”
Greg blinked. “Yeah, probably. Still paying double rates though.”
Traitor.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re going.”
—
Three hours later, I stood outside another Vale property trying not to commit a felony.
The building overlooked Ashbourne Harbour, all black steel and glass and obscene wealth. Luxury cars lined the private entrance while sharply dressed people moved through the lobby carrying phones that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
I looked wildly out of place.
Again.
The receptionist smiled politely. “Ms. Hart?”
I frowned. “How do you people always know who I am?”
“We were informed to expect you.”
Of course they were.
She guided me toward a private elevator requiring a security card.
Definitely normal billionaire behavior.
Nothing suspicious there.
The elevator opened directly into a sprawling penthouse office.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the room. Dark marble. Gold accents. Expensive whiskey displayed behind smoked glass.
And Damien.
He stood near the windows in a fitted black suit that looked criminally expensive. One hand rested in his pocket while the other held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid.
Every female survival instinct I possessed immediately malfunctioned.
He turned slowly at the sound of my boots against marble.
Those dark eyes locked onto mine.
Heat slid down my spine.
“You’re staring,” I muttered.
“So are you.”
Damn him.
I set my toolbox down harder than necessary. “Where’s the refrigeration system?”
His gaze flicked over me lazily.
Black work tank.
Cargo pants.
Heavy boots.
My hair tied up because Ashbourne humidity was trying to ruin my life.
“You came back,” he said quietly.
“I came for the paycheck.”
A lie.
Not entirely.
But enough.
Something knowing flashed across his face anyway.
He moved toward me slowly, controlled power in every step.
God, he was big.
I held my ground out of sheer stubbornness.
When he stopped in front of me, the air felt too thick to breathe properly.
“You didn’t answer my calls,” he said.
“I ignored them intentionally.”
A corner of his mouth lifted.
“You’re the first person who’s ever done that.”
“That should concern you.”
“It interests me.”
There it was again.
That terrifying honesty.
No games.
No pretending.
Just direct, focused attention that made my pulse stumble every damn time.
I cleared my throat. “Your ribs okay?”
His expression shifted slightly.
“Worried about me, Lena?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You patched me up yourself.”
“That was basic human decency.”
“You don’t owe me decency.”
The quiet intensity in his voice caught me off guard.
Before I could respond, movement appeared behind him.
Three men entered the office.
Every single one of them armed.
My body tensed automatically.
Damien noticed instantly.
His expression darkened.
“They won’t touch you.”
One of the men — tall, scarred, terrifying — gave Damien a look.
“She shouldn’t be here.”
Excuse me?
I straightened immediately. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about all of you.”
Scarface looked deeply unimpressed.
Damien looked amused.
“You should leave,” the man continued coldly.
“And you should mind your business,” I shot back.
Silence.
Then Damien laughed.
Actually laughed.
Low and rough and real enough to make the room freeze.
Apparently that didn’t happen often.
Scarface stared at me like I’d accidentally survived a bear attack.
“You find this funny?” he asked Damien carefully.
“I do.”
His gaze stayed on me the entire time.
Possessive heat crept up my neck.
I hated how aware I was of him.
The scarred man muttered something under his breath and left with the others.
The second they disappeared, I turned back toward Damien.
“You work with actual criminals.”
His expression remained calm.
“And if I do?”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
Because the truth was—
I already knew.
Men didn’t get shot in penthouses over tax fraud.
“You’re dangerous,” I said finally.
His eyes darkened.
“Yes.”
The word landed between us like a loaded gun.
No apology.
No denial.
Just truth.
And somehow that made him even more dangerous.
I should leave.
I knew I should.
Instead, my stupid mouth asked, “Why me?”
Something shifted in his expression then.
Subtle.
Almost unreadable.
But human.
“You walked into a room full of blood,” he said quietly. “And instead of panicking, you argued with me.”
“That’s your reason?”
“It’s one of them.”
Heat curled low in my stomach again.
He stepped closer.
Close enough that I caught the scent of whiskey and cedar.
Close enough that I could feel warmth radiating from his body.
“Do you know what most people do around me?” he asked softly.
“What?”
“They obey.”
My pulse thudded harder.
“And you don’t.”
The air between us tightened.
Dangerously.
My voice came out quieter than intended. “Maybe I just don’t scare easily.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.
When he spoke again, his voice had roughened.
“That,” he murmured, “is becoming a problem for me.”
- Writer
