Page 87 of My Wedding Night Massacre

He goes still. "Aurora—"

"You don’t have to come to me if you don’t want to." I meet his eyes, let him see how serious I am.

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Yes, I do." My hand finds his chest, feels his heart hammering beneath the expensive fabric. "I know exactly what I'm asking. The question is whether you're brave enough to say yes."

The challenge hangs between us. I can see him thinking, weighing, calculating. His hand is still on my neck, thumb brushing my pulse point.

"I should say no," he says finally.

"But you won't."

His lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. "You're trouble."

"Absolutely." I step back, put careful distance between us before I do something stupid like beg. "Midnight. Room 412. Don't make me wait."

Then I walk away, because if I don't, I'll climb him right here in the middle of this gallery full of people who know my father.

I can feel him watching me as I weave through the crowd. Can feel the weight of his gaze like a hand between my shoulder blades.

I don't look back.

Will he come?

The question haunts me for the rest of the night. I mingle, smile, make small talk with Dad's associate about paintings I don't care about. But my mind is in that hotel room, wondering if Axel will actually show up or if I just made a complete fool of myself.

He wants me. I felt it in that kiss.

But wanting and doing are two different things. And he looked so guarded, so suspicious, like he doesn't trust this. Doesn't trust me.

Stop overthinking. Either he shows up or he doesn't.

I leave the gallery early, take an Uber back to the hotel. Shower. Change into a robe. Pace.

Midnight comes and goes.

12:05.

12:10.

He's not coming.

I should have known better. Should have realized that a man like him doesn't chase girls he meets at clubs. Doesn't show up at hotel rooms based on an invitation from a stranger.

I'm reaching for my phone to text Chloe and confess my humiliation when someone knocks.

Quiet. Controlled.

My heart stops.

I open the door.

Axel's leaning against the frame, jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that make my mouth water. He looks at me—really looks, his eyes traveling from my wet hair down to my bare feet and back up again.

"Second thoughts?" he asks.

"Are you?"