The air on the forty-second floor of the Steves Tower smelled like polished mahogany, ozone, and calculated violence. It was a sterile, corporate veneer that cost millions to maintain, designed specifically to fool the Securities and Exchange Commission while masking the rot beneath.

The hum of forty server racks provided a deep, steady bassline that filled the cool, sterile air of the bunker. Blue and amber LED indicator lights flickered across the concrete walls, casting shifting, oceanic patterns over the sleek curves of my torn black gown.

I leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, shuddering exhale of pure exhaustion. The adrenaline that had sustained me through the waltz, the sniper fire, the subway tunnels, and the financial warfare was finally beginning to recede, leaving my limbs feeling heavy as lead.

Larkin didn't step back. He stood towering over my chair, his midnight-black tuxedo jacket discarded on a server console, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the hollow of his throat and the sharp line of his collarbone.

He reached down, took both of my hands, and pulled me smoothly to my feet.

My bare soles hit the cold concrete, but before I could steady my balance, his arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me effortlessly until I was seated on the edge of the heavy steel server desk.

He stepped between my thighs, his hips pressing firmly against the edge of the console, trapping me within the circle of his broad, powerful body.

"Larkin," I whispered, my voice thick with a mixture of exhaustion and sudden, soaring heat.

"Three years, Penelope," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that resonated straight through my bones. His hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs gently wiping away the faint smudge of carbon on my temple. "Three years of watching you carry paper across my office. Do you have any idea what kind of torture that was?"

A faint, teasing smile touched my lips. "You could have fired me."

"I would have burned the city to the ground before I let you walk out of that building," he growled softly, his fingers threading into the dark silk of my hair, tilting my head back until my throat was completely exposed to the blue server lights. "Every time Thomas opened his mouth to you, I had to lock my hands into my pockets to keep from snapping his neck in the middle of the corridor."

"You let him play his games," I noted, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the heavy, rhythmic thunder of his heart beneath the fine linen.

"Because I knew you were playing one of your own," he replied, his lips brushing along the line of my jaw, trailing fire across my skin. "I didn't know what the endgame was, but I knew you were too brilliant to be a victim. And tonight... tonight you saved my life. You saved my empire. And you looked magnificent doing it."

His mouth found mine again, not with the frantic, violent urgency of the terrace, but with a deep, slow, intoxicating possession that stole every coherent thought from my brain. I wrapped my bare legs around his waist, pulling him flush against me, my hands gripping his broad shoulders as the silk of my dress bunched between our bodies. He groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding down to grip the bare skin of my hips, lifting me closer until there was no space, no air, and no secrets left between us.

When he finally pulled back to breathe, his dark eyes were burning with an intensity that bordered on madness.

"You own the Castiglione fleet now," he rasped, his forehead resting against mine, his breath hot against my lips. "You own the secondary liens on ninety million dollars of shipping infrastructure. You don't need my ninety-thousand-dollar salary, Penelope. You're wealthier than half the men in that ballroom."

"Are you firing me, Mr. Steves?" I whispered, my fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw.

"I'm making a counter-offer," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a heavy, antique signet ring—a platinum band bearing the coiled serpent crest of the sovereign Steves charter.

He didn't drop to one knee. He was Larkin Steves; he didn't kneel to anyone.

Instead, he held the heavy platinum ring before my eyes, his granite jaw tightening with the first tremor of genuine vulnerability I had ever seen in him.

"You don't work for me, Penelope," Larkin stated, his voice ringing with absolute, terrifying conviction. "You rule with me. Fifty-fifty on every contract, every port, every ledger, and every drop of blood that passes through this coast. You take my name, you take my empire, and you stand beside me as the sovereign head of this family."

I stared at the heavy platinum ring, then looked up into the obsidian depths of his eyes.

Three years ago, I had been an invisible girl in Queens, terrified of collection agencies, burying my soul beneath oversized polyester to keep from being noticed by the wolves of the world.

Tonight, the deadliest wolf in Manhattan was offering me his crown.

"And what happens if I audit you, Larkin?" I asked, a wicked, triumphant smile curving my red lips.

A slow, dazzling smirk broke across his handsome face—the smile of a predator who had finally found his queen.

"Then I expect you to be completely merciless, Mrs. Steves," he murmured.