Killing Me Softly

Quinn POV:

When I woke up, I was lying in a massive, unfamiliar bed.

My temples throbbed with a dull, nauseating ache, my vision swimming as I stared at the geometric coffered ceiling above me. Last night had been the flagship collection's celebration banquet, and I had carelessly let myself drink two glasses of vintage champagne too many.

And then...

My fingers dug into the silk sheets, a sudden, scorching wave of heat rushing through my veins as memory snapped violently into focus.

That deep, guttural groan of a man, rough and heavy with an intoxicating, territorial fever, was still echoing against the shell of my ear like an unholy spell. The phantom friction of burning skin, the breathless pants muffled against the crook of my neck, the ruthless, iron clamp of his large hands pinning my hips to the mattress—it all rushed back in a dizzying, suffocating wave. My face ignited crimson, and the dormant, sensitive gland at the nape of my neck gave an involuntary, feverish throb.

Even now, the cold morning air in the suite was saturated with the lingering aftermath of an unsuppressed S-class Alpha rut—dense, freezing Siberian cedar tangled with bitter frost and the faintest, sweet exhaustion of my own crushed freesia.

I cut off my spiraling thoughts immediately. I needed to get out of this dangerous territory before whoever owned this room returned.

Reaching down over the edge of the mattress, I picked up the white silk shirt lying crumpled on the hardwood floor. The delicate fabric had been completely shredded down the front seam, the pearl buttons ripped clean away by fingers that had lost all civilized restraint under the influence of primal hormones.

Could this even be worn outside?

My trembling hand tossed the ruined silk aside.

Right by the foot of the bed sat a clean garment bag. It had obviously been left behind by him—a sharp, structured charcoal skirt suit with a high standing collar. I slipped into it in a hurry. It was definitely not my usual style, most likely bought off the rack from an emergency luxury courier just to handle the morning aftermath.

Heading into the adjoining marble bathroom, I caught sight of myself in the vanity mirror and froze.

I turned my head, inspecting the pale, sensitive curve of my nape. Right over my scent gland, the skin was raw and swollen, carrying the distinct, crimson puncture of an Alpha's canines—a textbook temporary mark. It wasn't the deep, permanent mating bond that would tether my soul to his forever, but the chemical claim was unmistakable, flooding my bloodstream with the heavy, possessive warmth of his cedar.

And beneath my collarbones?

Absolute, unmitigated chaos. Feverish crimson marks, dark bruised bites, and lingering friction burns trailed across the porcelain slope of my chest all the way down to my ribs.

Ha! Should I actually compliment this man on his aristocratic chivalry?

Even in the feral delirium of an unexpected rut, he had possessed just enough terrifying discipline to stop at a temporary bite rather than sealing a permanent bond, keeping his claim temporary so high society wouldn't discover he had knotted an unregistered employee!

I let out a shaky breath, adjusted the stiff, high collar of the suit to conceal the swollen bite and burns, and grabbed my clutch from the vanity.

This was a massive penthouse suite, completely stripped of any lived-in warmth. It did not look like a hotel, yet in many ways, it felt just like one.

I pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the living pavilion.

Sure enough, it was a private residence.

A sprawling, minimalist salon stretched out before me, framed by panoramic glass overlooking the Hudson. And sitting right in the center of the leather sectional was a figure that made the breath catch dead in my throat.

He wore high-end black silk loungewear, wireless noise-canceling headphones over his ears, lounging on the sofa with an ergonomic pillow propping up his laptop. He looked indolent, effortless, and strikingly aloof.

Hearing my hesitant footsteps on the parquet, he slowly lifted his deep, piercing gaze.

The man sitting there was none other than my supreme corporate ruler, Winston Kensington...

Wasn't he supposed to be the untouchable, chaste monarch of the luxury fashion empire? The man who wore a Level VII titanium scent collar to board meetings and was rumored to be biologically immune to Omega pheromones?

Judging by his unhinged appetite last night, that monastic restraint was a total joke. He had not been practicing discipline; he had acted like a starved apex predator unleashed after a decade of solitary confinement.

I stood frozen in shock, my lips parting to speak, but Winston beat me to it.