The Tycoons Leash

The heavy velvet drapes smelled of dust and old secrets.

Eveline Delacruz pressed her spine against the cold oak of the library door, her lungs burning as if she had just sprinted a mile. She hadn't ran, though. You didn't run in the Horn manor. You glided. You smiled. You pretended you weren't suffocating.

Downstairs, the muffled strains of a string quartet filtered through the floorboards. Mozart. It was always Mozart when Alistair Horn wanted to pretend his family wasn't built on blood money and ruthless acquisitions.

Her phone vibrated against her thigh, a violent buzz in the silence. Eveline fumbled with the clutch, her fingers slick with sweat.

Hessie: Where are you? Janiya is looking for Fulton. Don't embarrass me tonight. We need this month's allowance.

Eveline stared at the screen until the words blurred. Her mother didn't ask if she was okay. She never did. The allowance. The trust fund. The golden leash that had been wrapped around Eveline's throat since her stepfather died and left his nephew, Fulton Horn, as the executor of their lives.

The brass doorknob turned.

It was a slow, deliberate sound. Metal grinding against metal.

Panic, sharp and cold, spiked in her chest. Eveline scrambled backward, her heels sinking into the plush Persian rug, and ducked behind the thick burgundy curtains just as the door creaked open.

Heavy footsteps entered. They didn't hesitate. They owned the floor.

The air in the room shifted instantly. The scent of old paper and wax was obliterated by a sharper, darker smell. Cedarwood. Expensive scotch. And the faint, lingering trace of cold tobacco.

Fulton.

Eveline held her breath until her chest ached. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying to a God that had abandoned this house years ago. Just get a drink. Just get a drink and leave.

The clink of crystal against crystal echoed like a gunshot. Ice hitting the glass. Liquid pouring.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"Come out, Eveline."

His voice was low, a deep baritone that vibrated in her bones. He didn't shout. He never shouted. He didn't have to.

She didn't move. Maybe he was bluffing.

"I can hear your heart beating from here," he added, his tone bored. "Don't make me drag you out."

Eveline's trembling hand gripped the velvet fabric. She pushed it aside.

The library was dim, lit only by the moonlight spilling through the French windows. Fulton Horn stood by the antique liquor cabinet, his back to her. He was a shadow cut from the darkness, broad-shouldered and imposing in his tuxedo.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, not bothering to turn around.

"Who gave you permission to wear backless tonight?"

The question was casual, but the threat underneath was razor-sharp.

Eveline took a step forward, her legs feeling like they were made of water. "I'm done, Fulton."

He paused. The ice in his glass settled with a soft clink.

Then, a low, dark chuckle escaped him. It was a sound devoid of humor. He turned slowly, his grey eyes locking onto hers. In the shadows, they looked black. Predatory.

"Done?" He took a sip of his drink, watching her over the rim. "Done with what, exactly?"

"This." She gestured vaguely between them, her voice shaking. "Us. You. I won't be your mistress while you parade Janiya Tanner around as your fiancée."

Fulton set the glass down on the mahogany desk. The sound was too loud. He began to walk toward her.

"Janiya is a business arrangement," he said, closing the distance. "You know that."