Immortal Hunger

Nowhere to Run

Phone screen stabbed blue light into her eyes. 3:14 AM.

​Fingers locked around the edges until her joints popped. The photo didn't fade. Not a hallucination. Evidence. Arrogant, undeniable proof he had invaded her space without permission.

​I’m dreaming about you.

​Four words. A challenge. A direct middle finger to years of built-up barricades. Panic hit her gut, cold and sharp, burning instantly into rage. Her thumb hovered over the key to message John Miller. Drop the Napa project. Hide behind spreadsheets and laminate tables. A quiet grave.

​„What do you want?“ she muttered into the dark, already knowing. He didn't want peace. He wanted a fire.

​She didn't block him. The wired, starving part of her gripped the phone tighter. She hit speed dial. Not John.

​Two rings. No hesitation. He picked up instantly.

​„Awake, Alex?“ Low. Too close. Like he stood right at the edge of the bed.

​„This is sick,“ she snapped, voice low, hands shaking. „You're stalking me.“

​„Not stalking if you left the door unlocked,“ he cut in, lazy amusement dripping off every syllable. „Your silk scarf. It smells like you. Driving me crazy.“

​„You're out of your mind,“ she hissed, squeezing the casing until her knuckles turned translucent. „I'm engaged. I have a real man—“

​„A guy who gives you a forty-eight-second debrief instead of actual pleasure,“ Hunter interrupted, a velvet blade sliding down her spine. „Don't bullshit me. You remember how you felt in my office. You didn't pull away.“

​Breath caught. Cheeks caught fire.

​„I am shaking with pure hatred,“ she lied, her voice thin. „Delete that photo. Leave me alone, or I walk away from this project right now. I'll hand the file to John Miller.“

​„Try it,“ he murmured, his tone shifting heavy and thick. „Or... come closer to the phone. Let me make you forget about your safe little schedule and that joke of a fiancé.“

​A violent shudder ripped through her. Heat flooded between her thighs.

​„Stop it,“ she choked out. „Don't—“

​„Tell me you don't want it,“ he whispered right against the mic. „Tell me you don't want me touching you until you're screaming.“

​„I hate you.“

​„Good start, Alex,“ he hummed, dark and victorious. „See you Thursday.“

​Click.

​Next morning. Stale espresso and burnt anxiety.

​She stood at John Miller’s desk, dropping the leather binder with a sharp thud. „Take Napa,“ she said flatly. „I'm stepping down.“

​John blinked up from his monitor. „Are you insane? This is the commission of the decade.“

​„Workload.“

​John laughed dryly. „Right. Valerian requested you specifically.“

​An hour later, her desk phone buzzed. Her assistant's voice came through tight with alarm. „Line one. Hunter Valerian. Refusing to talk to John. Insists on speaking directly to you.“

​She grabbed the receiver.

​„You have five seconds to give me a reason that doesn't sound like cowardice, Aleksandra,“ Hunter's voice crashed through the line. Low, harsh, vibrating with dangerous energy.

​„Mr. Valerian,“ she forced out, her grip whitening on the plastic. „I am managing my workload. John Miller has thirty years of—“

​„I don't give a damn if John Miller built the Pyramids,“ Hunter cut in, razor-sharp menace slicing through the office noise. „I didn't hand a forty-million-dollar contract to your firm for Miller's bloodless, soul-dead boxes. I gave it to you.“

​„It's a business decision—“

​„It's a lie,“ he spat. „You stood in my office, Alex. You felt my hands on you. You dumped the file on Miller's desk because you know you don't belong to that false life.“

​„You don't own me,“ she whispered, her voice cracking.

​„I own this project,“ he countered smoothly, velvet warmth carrying crushing weight. „And I owned every pulse in your body. Send Miller to Napa. But the contract is with you. If you step away, I pull the project.“

​A cold spike of adrenaline shot down her spine. „You're leveraging the entire account?“

​„I'm forcing you to stop running from what's inevitable,“ he rumbled. „Fight it in person. Stand in front of me on Thursday, look me in the eye, and tell me you can work with me without feeling a thing.“

​Her pulse hammered wildly. Heat bloomed low.

​„Nine sharp,“ she choked out. „Thursday morning. But this is strictly architecture, Hunter. You cross that line again, and I walk.“

​„Bring all the steel and concrete you want, Alex,“ he murmured. „I'll see you Thursday.“

​Click.

​Thursday morning. Napa Valley.

​Gravel crunched under tires. The isolated glass and steel pavilion loomed ahead against rolling green hills.

​She stepped out, walking up the stone steps to push the heavy glass door open. The foyer was dead quiet. Concrete, cedar, and a faint trace of sandalwood.

​Not here yet. Good. Set up the boards and—

​„You're exactly two minutes early, Aleksandra,“ a deep, velvety voice murmured right against her ear.

​Breath locked. Her portfolio dropped, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Strong, calloused hands clamped around her waist, yanking her hard against a blazing chest.

​„And you smell just as intoxicating as that silk scarf,“ Hunter whispered, his lips grazing her neck as the front door clicked shut, locking them in the dark together.