Rain sluices down Seattle’s streets, turning the city into a mirror of my mood—dark, restless, unyielding. I’m Lena, a fight promoter who thrives in the underbelly, trading in blood and bets to drown the ache of a life gone wrong. The Hollow Crown is my domain tonight, a basement club where the air’s thick with smoke and secrets, cage fights rattling the walls. My leather skirt hugs my hips, boots clicking on concrete, but beneath the armor, I’m fraying, craving something to jolt me alive. I’m Robert Greene’s Coquette, all sharp edges and teasing glances, but no one’s broken through my guard in years.
He’s there, in the shadows by the bar—Viktor, the enforcer for the city’s darkest players. His reputation’s a blade: cold, precise, untouchable. Black shirt, black eyes, a face carved from granite, he’s the Rake, promising ruin with a look. I’ve seen him before, collecting debts in alleys, his silence more lethal than a gun. Tonight, his gaze pins me, stripping away my bravado, and I hate how my body hums, heat curling low. I should steer clear—men like him don’t play for keeps—but my pulse screams otherwise, daring me to test his ice.
I weave through the crowd, the roar of the fight fading as I near him. He doesn’t move, just watches, a predator sizing up prey. “Lena,” he says, my name a low rasp, like he’s already tasted it. How does he know me? Suspense twists, sharp and cold, but I lean in, close enough to smell cedar and steel on him. “You’re out of your depth,” I say, voice steady despite the tremor in my veins. His lips curve, not a smile—something darker. “Or you’re in mine.”
Words are a spark, and we’re gasoline. He nods to a side door, and I follow, knowing it’s a mistake but craving the fall. The room’s a storage closet—crates, a bare bulb, the bass of the club a distant pulse. The door shuts, and he’s on me, backing me against a wall, his hands caging my wrists above my head. “Tell me no,” he murmurs, breath hot on my neck, but my silence is consent, reckless and raw. His mouth crashes into mine, hard and punishing, teeth scraping my lip until I taste blood. I bite back, just as fierce, my tongue warring with his, a kiss that’s more battle than surrender.
He yanks my blouse open, buttons scattering, and I’m exposed—bra pushed up, breasts spilling free, nipples hardening under his stare. His hands are rough, calloused, kneading my flesh, thumbs circling my peaks until I gasp, arching into him. I’m not idle; my fingers claw his shirt, ripping it to reveal ink—snakes and skulls curling over muscle, a map of his sins. I trace them, nails digging, and he hisses, eyes blazing. My skirt’s next, shoved up my thighs, panties torn aside, and his fingers find me—wet, aching, my clit pulsing under his touch. “So fucking ready,” he growls, two fingers plunging deep, curling, pumping until my moans echo, shameless and desperate.
I’m fumbling with his belt, leather snapping, and his cock springs free—thick, veined, a bead of precum glistening. I stroke him, slow and firm, feeling him throb, his groan a rumble that vibrates through me. He lifts me, my legs wrapping his waist, and pins me against the wall, the concrete biting my back. “Look at me,” he orders, and I do, our eyes locked as he teases my entrance, his tip slick with my arousal. Then he thrusts—hard, deep, splitting me open with a burn that’s pure ecstasy. I cry out, nails raking his shoulders, blood welling under my fingers as he fucks me, relentless, each stroke a claim.
The world narrows to this—his hips slamming, my body rocking, sweat slicking our skin. His hand grips my throat, not squeezing, just holding, and it’s electric, grounding me in the chaos. My breasts bounce, his mouth finding a nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing until I’m whimpering, pleasure coiling tight. He shifts, angling deeper, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur, and I’m trembling, so close I can taste it. “Come for me, Lena,” he rasps, his thumb circling my clit, and I explode—a scream tearing free, my walls clenching, milking him as waves crash through me. He’s not far behind, a guttural groan as he spills, hot and thick, filling me until it drips down my thighs.
We’re still, panting, my legs shaking as he lowers me. The bulb swings, shadows dancing, and I see it—a flicker in his eyes, something haunted, like he knows me beyond tonight. “Who are you?” I whisper, but he steps back, adjusting his shirt, the mask of control snapping into place. “Walk away,” he says, voice flat, but his gaze lingers, heavy with secrets. I dress, my body humming, my mind reeling—who is he to me? I leave the Hollow Crown with his mark on my skin and a hunger for answers, knowing I’ll chase him again, even if it breaks me.