Page 40 of Ruthless Arrangement

“You’re concerned about her,” he observes, his eyes still fixed on the city lights. “That’s admirable. Family loyalty is increasingly rare these days.”

There’s something in his voice when he says “family.” A weight, a reverence almost—that catches my attention. I turn to study his profile, struck by how little I know about this man despite the many days I’ve spent in his orbit.

“Do you have a family?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Besides your uncle, I mean.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I sense a subtle shift in his posture, a slight tensing of his shoulders. “Family is complicated in my world,” he says after a moment. “Blood matters, but loyalty matters more.”

It’s not really an answer, but it feels like one of the few genuine things he’s said to me. I want to press further, to understand more about the man behind the constructed exterior, but the words die in my throat as his hand settles on my bare shoulder.

His touch is light, almost casual, but it shocks me. His fingertips trace the line of my collarbone with deliberate slowness, and heat pools low, spreading outward like fire. My breathing stutters, my body betraying me with a visceral response I can’t control.

“Cold?” he asks, though we both know that’s not why my skin suddenly feels too tight.

I should step away. I should remind him I’m here as a journalist, not as whatever this is becoming. I should remember my mother’s warning, still in my ears:His kind only see assets and liabilities. Nothing more.

Instead, I’m locked in place, my eyes meeting Nico’s as his fingers continue their leisurely exploration of my skin. The question I meant to ask about my mother’s warning remains trapped in my throat, drowned out by the insistent tempo of my racing heart beat.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, his voice dropping to a register that seems to vibrate through me. “Red suits you.”

“You chose it,” I say, hating how breathless I sound.

His smile deepens, satisfaction clear in the curve of his lips. “True. I did. I picked this, because I knew how it would look against your skin.”

His fingers drift higher, brushing the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. I can’t suppress the small quiver that runs through me, and his eyes darken in response. He’s so close now that I can feel the heat from him.

“Why am I here, Nico?” I ask, trying to regain some control over the situation, over myself. “Really. Not the protection excuse. Not the story. Why did you bring me tonight?”

His hand moves to cup my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a gesture that’s becoming disturbingly routine. “Because I wanted to see you like this,” he says. “In my world. Wearing what I chose. On my arm.”

The honesty of it, the raw possessiveness, should repel me. Should make me recoil in feminist outrage. Instead, something dark and primal unfurls in my chest, responding to the claim in his words, in his touch.

“I’m not yours,” I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds unconvincing.

“Aren’t you?” His other hand slides around my waist, drawing me closer until our bodies are almost flush against each other. “For tonight, at least?”

My head tilts back to maintain eye contact, and in that slight movement, I feel a surrender I never expected. I’ve spent my entire adult life priding myself on my independence, my strength, my unwillingness to be swayed by any man’s charm or power. Yet here I am, melting under Nico Varela’s touch like I’m made of nothing more substantial than the silk of this dress.

“This is a bad idea,” I murmur, even as my hands come to rest on his chest.

“The best ones are,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It isn’t tentative. It’s claiming, pure and simple. His lips are firm and insistent, his hand at my waist pulling me hard against him. I should resist. I should push him away. I should remember who he is, what he’s done, the blood on his hands.

Instead, I kiss him back with a hunger that shocks me, my fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entry, and I open to him without hesitation. He tastes of expensive whiskey and barely leashed power, the slight rasp of his stubble against my skin sending sparks across my nerves. I’m drowning in it. I’m drowning in him.

One of his hands slides into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. The other presses against the small of my back, holding me against him so close I can feel every hard plane of his body. A small sound escapes me, half moan, half surrender, and he responds with a growl that vibrates through my bones.

For a moment, the world beyond this balcony ceases to exist. There is only this. His mouth on mine, his hands possessing me, the thundering of my heart against my ribs. Right now, I am not Lea Song, an ambitious journalist. I am not the daughter of Professor Eunji Song. I am simply a woman in the arms of a dangerous man, consumed by a desire I never saw coming.

When he breaks the kiss, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, pupils blown wide with desire. His thumb traces my lower lip, now swollen from his kiss.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he challenges. “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

It would be so easy to lie. To claim this is just part of my investigation, that I’m playing along to gain his trust, to access his world. But the truth burns too hot to deny, even to myself.

“I can’t,” I admit, the words almost inaudible. “God help me, I can’t.”

Triumph flashes in his eyes; pure satisfaction mixed with something darker I can’t name. His hand tightens in my hair, not painful but assertive, controlling.

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