Leon Crane became a ghost in his own penthouse.
He was still there—his scent on the air, his voice on the phone in the next room, his silhouette behind frosted glass. But to Aria, he was a shadow now. Present, but just out of reach.
Three days had passed since their hallway conversation.
Three days since he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
Now? Nothing.
Not a brush of fingers. Not a whispered word. Not a glance that lingered too long.
And yet…
He watched.
She felt it.
Every time she passed the kitchen in one of his stolen dress shirts. Every time she stretched by the window, hair damp from the shower, silk robe clinging to her skin.
His eyes would lift.
Hold.
Then turn away.
It was infuriating.
Because he wanted her. She knew he did. And she—God help her—wanted him, too. She wasn't supposed to, but desire didn't ask for permission. It crept in, like warmth under the door on a winter night.
She'd begun to crave the way his voice dropped when he was annoyed.
The way his jaw flexed when she challenged him.
The way his hands gripped the whiskey glass just a little tighter when she passed too close.
And now, the absence of it—of him—was unbearable.
One night, Aria stood in the kitchen wearing nothing but a white button-down and lace underwear.
It wasn't an accident.
Leon stepped in, fresh from a late-night call. Tie loosened. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
He paused when he saw her.
His gaze flicked over her legs, her bare thighs, the swell of her chest barely contained by the open shirt.
Then back up to her eyes.
She didn't flinch. "Something on your mind?"
"Not anymore," he said, brushing past her to the fridge.
She turned slowly, leaning against the counter, one hip jutting just slightly.
"You've been avoiding me."
"I've been busy."
"Busy pretending we don't want to screw each other senseless?" she asked sweetly.
His hand tightened around the fridge door.
Then slammed it shut.
He stalked toward her slowly. "Careful, Aria."
"Why?" she whispered. "Afraid I'll call your bluff?"
He stopped inches from her.
Her pulse roared.
His voice was low and dark. "I don't bluff."
"You're doing a damn good impression."
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
She saw it—the crack in his armor. The heat he couldn't hide.
"I'm not avoiding you," he said, voice like velvet soaked in gasoline. "I'm protecting you."
"From what?"
"Me."
A breath caught between them. Hers. His.
He stepped closer. She didn't move.
His knuckles grazed the edge of her hip. Just a whisper of contact, and yet it felt like an earthquake beneath her skin.
"Leon…"
He leaned in—mouth near her ear.
Then stopped.
"You're not ready," he said, pulling back. "And if I touch you now, I won't stop."
Aria swallowed the moan threatening her throat.
Then he turned and walked away.
Just like that.
Leaving her burning.
Later that night, she couldn't sleep. The need in her belly had turned to fire.
She slipped into his room without knocking.
He was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed.
His back was bare. Muscles taut. Haunted.
She stood in the doorway. "I'm not afraid of you."
He didn't look at her. "You should be."
She crossed the room anyway.
Stopped in front of him.
"I don't want to be protected," she said. "Not from this. Not from you."
Leon looked up at her—eyes shadowed with restraint.
He reached up.
Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Then let his hand fall.
"Go to sleep, Aria," he whispered. "Before I do something we both regret."
She hesitated.
But in the end, she turned and left.
Not because she didn't want him.
But because when the storm hit, she wanted to meet it head-on.