Chapter 3

The party continued, with its music and expensive perfumes, but for Alis, it had all dwindled to a distant hum, a blurred backdrop to the inner turmoil consuming her. Every cell in her body seemed tuned to a single man: Samuel. She saw him through the crowd, standing near the bar, holding a glass of whiskey, his dark eyes fixed on her. The dance had been merely a first lure, a silent declaration of intent that now echoed in every fiber of her being.

She circulated among the guests, a fake smile plastered on her face, responding to compliments and empty questions on autopilot. Inside, however, it was pure chaos. The warmth of his hand on her waist was a phantom sensation, a fiery mark that stubbornly refused to fade. The pressure of his body against hers, the hard, promising bulge she had felt against her stomach, was a tactile memory that made her tremble inside. The satin dress, once an armor, now felt like an excessively sensitive second skin, each fold of the fabric a reminder of his touch.

He didn't approach again. It was part of the game, she realized. Part of the delicious torture. He watched her, fueling the tension with the patience of a predator who knows his prey is practically in his clutches. And Alis, to her own astonishment and growing excitement,you knewwhich was the prey. And she longed to be captured.

The night wore on. The newlyweds left amidst a shower of petals and applause. The guests began to disperse, some to their hotel rooms, others to continue the celebration in smaller groups in the surrounding area. Alis felt the weariness begin to weigh on her eyelids, but it was a superficial weariness, a thin veil over an electric current of anticipation.

She climbed the wide stairs leading to the bedrooms, her high heels making a hollow, lonely sound in the silent early morning. The hallway was long, lit by soft lights embedded in the floor, with dark, solid wood doors on either side. The sea, now, was a constant whisper, a deep, damp breath emanating from the open balconies.

And then she saw him.

He wasn't moving. He wasn't looking for his room. He was simply...leafLeaning against the bedroom doorthat...number 217. As if he knew. As if he had received an inner map, a compass that guided him directly to her. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, the white shirt now unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a shadow of tanned skin and a promise of muscles beneath the fabric. His posture was one of infinite patience, of absolute certainty. A predator waiting.

Alis stopped a few feet away, her heart pounding so hard she feared he could hear it. The initial surprise gave way to deep acceptance. This was it. This was where everything had been leading since the moment their eyes met at the altar.

He didn't say a word. He simply observed her, his eyes scanning her from head to toe, slowly, appreciatively, as if he were surveying territory that would soon be his. The challenge in that gaze was as clear as day.

Alis swallowed hard, her mouth dry. Fear and desire intertwined, creating an intoxicating drug in her veins. She could turn around. She could pretend she was going to another room. She could say something cutting, something that would restore dignity and distance. Instead, she felt the corners of her mouth curl into a small, defiant smile. She raised her chin, meeting his gaze.

"Am I being followed?" Her voice sounded hoarser than usual, laden with a provocation she made no attempt to hide.

He stepped away from the door with fluid slowness. His movements were controlled, economical, each muscle under tight control.

"I'm controlling myself," he replied, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the very air between them. "And losing it. With every passing second."

He took a step forward. Then another. The distance between them lessened until she could feel the radiant warmth of his body, smell the whiskey, and the woody scent of his skin. It was an invasion of personal space, an affront to all social rules, and it was the most exciting thing Alis had ever experienced.

She did not back down. She remained firm, her gaze locked on his.

"And what do you intend to do about this… impending defeat?"

"It's up to you." His hand rose, but he didn't touch it. He merely ran his fingertips inches from the fabric of her dress, along the curve of her hip. She felt the skin beneath the satin burn at the proximity. "The door is over there. You can go in alone and lock it. Or…"

" Or? " she whispered, the air trapped in her lungs.

"Or you could invite me in." His eyes seemed even darker, his pupils dilated, swallowing his brown irises. "But I'm warning you, Alis. If I cross that door, it won't be to have tea and talk about architecture."

The words were sharp, full of double meanings, a fragile facade for the uncontrollable desire that seethed beneath the surface. She could feel the dampness between her legs, a physical, primal, and undeniable response to his closeness, to his rawness.

She looked at the door. At the brass doorknob. At the exit. Then she looked back at him. At the promise of those eyes, that mouth, those hands. At the storm he represented.

And he made the decision.