Page 68 of Her Ruin

She turned her back on me to walk back to the bar. My arm shot out, snaking around her waist as I pulled her back into my body, loving how soft she felt in my hold. After I swept her hair to the side, my lips skimmed her ear.

“What is your problem?” she hissed, turning her head to look up at me. Her hand dug into my forearm, but she wasn’t fighting my hold.

“My problem is that you think that was a kiss.” I held her closer. “Tell me why I shouldn’t take you to my office and fuck you like you want me to.” My lips were at her pulse, feeling it racing against my tongue as I tasted her skin.

Before she could answer, the sound of a distant cheer and clinking glasses pulled our attention momentarily back to the club’s lively atmosphere. I knew we couldn’t let this play out in front of everyone. With a nip of her sweet flesh and one last lingering kiss on her neck, I stepped back, breaking my hold on her.

Isla turned to look at me, her hand on her neck, her eyes wide and confused.

“Enjoy your evening, Isla.” I looked around us, letting the tension hang in the air. Looking back at her, I saw her eyes, a storm of unresolved emotions, and I knew we both knew this wasn’t the end—not tonight, maybe not ever. “Stick to water.”

I moved away from her, through the crowd, feeling the thrill of the chase rekindle within me. The urge to take her, claim her, pulsed through me.

But not here. Not when she was half drunk. Not when her hold on her control was compromised. No, I wanted that tight little body underneath me, knowing she had given me control willingly and withsoberconsent.

This little test just now told me that, despite what happened at last week’s gala, the game was far from over—and I wasn’t done playing.

And neither was she.

I climbed the stairs to the VIP booths, slipping into one I knew was empty, and walked over to the glass. My eyes found her easily, and I smiled with smug satisfaction when I saw her finish her water and order another. I thought about my interaction with her and how we left it—an unspoken promise I wasn’t finished with her yet.

Leaning on the bar, I scanned the rest of the club. Busy yet my security team moved effortlessly through the crowds. I watched them do their jobs with cool, calm efficiency. No matter how much I tried to oversee the club, my attention kept flicking back to Isla. Every time I saw her, something shifted, a spark of defiance mixed with a vulnerability that made my carefully constructed walls tremble. I prided myself on my control, yet when it came to her, it felt like a fragile illusion.

I knew she still resented that I fucked her over last week at the gala, but if tonight showed me anything, it was that she might not hold it against me as much as I thought she would.

It wasn’t personal. It was business. She had given me a golden opportunity to make my mark with zero effort from me. What did she think I would do?

The more worrying fact was this pull to her. I wasn’t sure I could simply let her go. We were both playing dangerously, an unspoken contest of wills that left both of us teetering on the edge. I remembered the heat in her eyes and the way her pulse raced under my touch. I masked it with a smirk, but I knew better than to trust that I had it all under control.

I watched her from the booth. She waved off Sienna’s questions, putting on a brave face, but she wore a mask of indifference, pretending she wasn’t affected. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before she crumbled.

I allowed myself a small smile, half amused, as I watched her hold the bottle of water up as she refused any more alcohol.

Good girl.

I turned as I sensed footsteps approaching, a familiar figure filling the doorway. Rye, the ever-present shadow, looked me over before he rolled his eyes. “You haven’t dragged her into a dark corner and had your wicked way with her?” He looked around the booth. “You losing your touch?”

“Fuck you.”

“No, you fuck Isla,” he quipped, coming to stand beside me.

He grunted when my fist connected with his kidney.

“Savage bastard,” he grumbled. “That delivery arrived about fifteen minutes ago,” he told me, lowering his voice.

I inhaled slowly. Money laundering wasn’t a distant process. It was an art form, a calculated dance between risk and control that I orchestrated from behind the scenes of Elixir.

Every night, cash flowed freely through the doors—cash from cover charges, high-priced “specialty” cocktails, and exclusive VIP bookings. We hosted certain promotional events where the cash intake was intentionally inflated. The excess revenue, which included money from illicit sources, was then mixed seamlessly with the club’s legitimate earnings.

The club’s books showed fake invoices for services like private catering or an exclusive VIP booth reservation that never took place. Like the empty booth I was in tonight, but the “fee” for that would show in the earnings tonight. The phantom transactions made it appear as though the club was generating more income than it actually was, creating a tidy paper trail. Over time, the “dirty” money, diluted among genuine profits, would be deposited into bank accounts without raising suspicion.

It was a system that relied on the club’s cash-based nature, a system that made every overcharged cocktail and “special event” a carefully measured step in a much larger plan. I didn’t just launder their money; I made sure Elixir was a powerhouse of both legitimate business and controlled risk—a dark secret hidden behind a polished, glamourous facade.

The club pulsed around me, alive with promise and peril.

I took a seat in one of the leather VIP booths as the club’s bass vibrated through the floor. The pulsing neon lights played over the sleek surfaces, a constant reminder that appearances were everything.

Rye slid into the booth across from me. “They said there was a little extra.”

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