The Prototype

66. Forgiveness

MARCELLUS

The silence of the hallway landing was almost deafening, yet I could hear the subtle murmur of voices below on the first floor. A low hum of conversation, laughter threading through the area as people arriving to go to the Gala in the ballroom.

Glancing down at my Rolex, keeping track of the time. Right on cue, the soft click of her door opening and then closing echoing through the stillness. Then—her footsteps. A slow, deliberate rhythm. The kind designed to be heard. Designed to be felt.

My head tilted up, my eyes locking onto hers the second she stepped into view. A slow, menacing smirk curved her lips—sharp, knowing, damn near lethal.

My eyes dragged down her body, taking her in, soaking her in, needing to commit every detail to memory. The way her dress cling to her like it's sculpted for the sole purpose of setting me on fire. Liquid gold laced with silver, a shimmering, molten masterpiece draped over her body like sin itself. Thousands of glimmering embellishments kissing her curves, catching the light, igniting her like she was walking straight out of my darkest, most depraved fantasies.

The neckline plunged. Deep. Daring. A cruel tease, exposing just enough of the swell of her full breasts to make my blood boil. My jaw clenching. My fists curling. My body responding in ways that demanded I rip this dress from her, put my mouth on every inch of exposed skin, and claim what's mine.

The slit of her dress riding high—so damn high—exposing the entirety of her smooth, golden-brown leg, glistening under the light. My mouth watering. My skin aching with the need to feel her against me.

But it's more than just the dress.

It's her.

The way she moved—confident, untouchable, commanding the space around her like she owned it.

Her hair swept up into a perfectly imperfect curly updo, leaving the delicate column of her throat exposed. An invitation. A torment. My fingers itched to curl around it, my teeth desperate to graze against her pulse, to feel her breath stutter against my lips.

Diamonds wrapping around her neck, sharp and cruel in their beauty, glittering like they belonged there—like I put them there. Matching earrings catching the light as she tilted her head, watching me, waiting for my reaction. That wicked, knowing smirk deepening.

This woman.

My woman.

Exquisite. Deadly. Drenching in power and seduction, laced with the kind of danger that stokes the fire and darkness inside me.

I stalked forward, my steps slow, calculated, meeting her halfway. Her scent hit me first—something sweet, something dark, something that made my blood thicken in my veins.

She didn't stop walking until we were inches apart. Until my body could feel the heat radiating from hers. Until my restraint feeling stretched so thin, threatening to snap with the force of a gunshot.

Her lips curled. Dangerous. Taunting. "I'm guessing by the interesting look on your face, clearly there's something going on in that head of yours." Her voice a slow drag of sin, rolling over my skin, sinking into my bones.

I reached for her, my fingers curling around her wrist, her pulse hammering against my thumb. "That's only for you to decide if you want to know what I'm thinking." My voice dropping into a teasing growl, low, edged with something darker.

Her wrist flexed, easing out of my grasp with a scoff, amusement flickering in her deadly, beautiful eyes. "I'm not even going to be that easily tempted." She smirked sliding her arm through mine, interlocking it. "Keep it to yourself," she suggested, her voice like silk laced with steel.