TAINTED

Chapter Four

The knock came just as the clock struck midnight.

Three sharp raps against her door.

Deynn froze, her brush halting in mid-stroke through her hair. None of the other maids would disturb her this late, not unless it was an order. And there was only one man in this house who gave orders after dark.

"Signor Santoro requests your presence in the study."

The guard's voice was clipped, formal. Deynn murmured her acknowledgment and shut the door, heart hammering in her chest.

Atlas.

The memory of his hand on her chin lingered, the low warning that had curled around her like smoke: You're walking on a blade's edge. She knew this was a test. Perhaps the test.

She rose, opening the wardrobe. Her hand hovered over the plain uniforms folded in neat stacks... then slid past them to the silk robe hidden beneath. Black, soft as water, and beneath it only a whisper of lace.

If Atlas wanted to see whether she was prey or a threat—then she would make him underestimate her. Seduction was its own weapon, and she had learned how to wield it.

By the time she stepped into the hall, the silk clung to her like shadows, her robe tied loosely enough that each movement offered a dangerous glimpse of bare skin. She followed the guard down the dim corridor, her steps silent against the marble, until they stopped before the carved oak doors of the study.

The guard knocked once, then opened them.

Atlas was waiting.

He sat behind the massive desk, a glass of amber whiskey in hand, his sleeves rolled up, shadows carving sharp lines along his jaw. The fire behind him painted the room in gold and blood. He looked up slowly, eyes darkening as they landed on her.

"Deynn," he said, voice smooth but edged. "Come in."

She obeyed, each step measured, the soft rustle of silk deliberate. His gaze lingered on her, unreadable, as she stopped before the desk.

"You called for me, sir?"

Atlas set his glass down, leaning back in his chair, studying her the way a predator studies a snare. Not lustful, not yet. Appraising. Testing.

"You heard things today you weren't meant to."

Her lips parted in a faint, coy smile. "I only hear what the walls let slip. If I repeat gossip, punish me. But if I keep your secrets, doesn't that make me... useful?"

He rose. Slowly. Deliberately. Every inch he closed between them made the air heavier, until she could feel his breath mingling with hers.

"Useful," he echoed, fingers brushing the edge of her silk robe as if testing the fabric—and her nerve. "You dress like this to clean walls, little maid?"

Deynn tilted her chin, refusing to shrink back. "You summoned me at midnight, Signor Santoro. I thought... perhaps you wanted more than a maid."

The silence stretched. Fire crackled. Her pulse pounded.

Then—Atlas laughed, low and dangerous, a sound that curled down her spine. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

"You think you can tempt the devil and walk away?" His words were a whisper of smoke. "Careful, Deynn. Seduction is a blade sharper than the one you walk on."

His hand tightened briefly on her waist, then released her as if dismissing a child's game.

"Pour me another drink," he ordered, already turning back toward his chair.

Deynn exhaled quietly, masking her tremor with a sultry smile as she reached for the decanter.

She had to survive the night—but she could feel it in her bones.

Atlas Santoro wasn't just testing her.

He was waiting to see how far she would fall.

—

The firelight in the study painted shadows across the walls, the crackle filling the silence as Deynn poured his whiskey with steady hands. Inside, her pulse was a storm, but she kept her expression cool, almost teasing, as she set the glass before him.

Atlas watched her every move—not like a man admiring a woman, but like a hunter examining the twitch of prey. His silence was more dangerous than his words.

"Sit," he said finally, nodding toward the leather chair opposite his desk.

Deynn obeyed, letting the silk robe slip just slightly from her shoulder as she lowered herself into the seat. The faintest flicker passed in his eyes, but his face remained unreadable.

"You wear temptation like armor," Atlas murmured, swirling his glass. "Tell me, little maid... does it make you feel powerful, thinking I might want you?"

Deynn's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Does it make you feel powerful, Signor Santoro, knowing I'm afraid of you?"

For the first time, his gaze sharpened, interest sparking like flint. He leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk, closing the space between them.

"You are afraid," he said softly. "I can smell it. The way your pulse betrays you. The way your eyes dart when you think I'll touch you."

Her breath caught, but she forced herself to hold his stare. "And yet, I'm still here."

Atlas stood, moving around the desk with the slow certainty of a man who owned every inch of the room. Deynn's body tensed, but she didn't flinch as he stopped beside her chair. His hand came down—not on her skin, but on the armrest, trapping her in place.

"Bravery," he murmured, his lips close enough that the warmth of his breath ghosted across her cheek. "Or stupidity. I haven't decided."

His other hand brushed the silk at her collarbone, tugging it down just enough to reveal lace. Not fully—just enough to remind her how exposed she truly was.

Deynn's heart thundered, but she tilted her chin up, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I wanted to see if the devil can be seduced."

Atlas's laugh was low, dark, and far too amused. His fingers traced along her jaw, lingering as if weighing whether to grip or caress.

"Seduce me?" His voice was velvet lined with steel. "No, Deynn. I'll let you dance at the edge, tease the flame, play your dangerous little game... but understand this."

His thumb pressed lightly against her throat, not choking—just enough for her to feel the unspoken threat.

"It won't be you who decides when desire turns into ruin. It will always be me."

Her breath hitched, and for a terrifying, intoxicating second she didn't know if he would kiss her or crush her. Instead, he released her with a suddenness that made her body jolt.

"Go," Atlas ordered, turning away, reclaiming his glass of whiskey as if the moment had never happened. "Before I decide to prove my point tonight."

Deynn rose on unsteady legs, the silk clinging to her skin like a secret. She forced herself to walk, not run, to the door. Her hand trembled on the knob, but she didn't let him see it.

Only when the door shut behind her did she allow herself to breathe.

And even then, her body still burned where his touch had lingered.

Atlas Santoro was dangerous. But worse—far worse—was the flicker of truth in her chest.

Part of her wanted to step back inside.