Page 112 of The Tower

“I had you all wrong,” he’d told her, and it was true. Not about her intelligence—he’d always known that was exceptional. But about her heart. He’d expected Victor Reed’s willing accomplice and found a prisoner instead. Someone who’d survived her father’s control without losing herself.

She was extraordinary.

And damned if he wasn’t falling for her.

Falling?

No. He was already there.

The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He’d been so focused on his endgame—destroying Victor Reed—that he hadn’t noticed when Sasha had become more than just a means to that end. When she’d become essential. Not because of what she could do for him, but because of who she was.

He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her. The suite was silent and dark except for the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He moved to the window, looking out at the glittering skyline, at Reed Tower in the distance—a monument to Victor Reed’s ego and ambition.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Everything he’d worked for was within reach. Years of planning, of gathering evidence, of building the perfect case against Victor Reed. The man who had destroyed his mother, who had turned him into a pariah in his own family. The man who had made him what he was.

And now, standing on the precipice of victory, he was risking it all for Victor Reed’s daughter.

The irony was almost painful.

Behind him, Sasha shifted in the bed, the sheets rustling softly. He turned to look at her, struck again by how vulnerable she appeared in sleep. In waking, she was all fire and determination, a fighter to her core despite the gilded cage her father had built around her. But in sleep, the armor fell away, revealing the woman beneath.

The woman he cared for far more than he’d ever intended.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with his own weakness. He couldn’t afford distractions, not now. Not when they were so close to bringing Reed down once and for all.

Except Sasha was no mere distraction. She’d become his partner in this crusade, a woman with her own stake in seeing her father brought to justice. She’d proven herself time and again—brave, resilient, and far smarter than anyone had given her credit for.

Including him.

The memory of her body beneath his hands sent heat coursing through him. The erotic brush of her hair over his skin, the way she’d arched into his touch, the sound of his name on her lips as she’d begged him—finally, gloriously begged him—for release. The trust in her eyes when he’d bound her wrists, when he’d blindfolded her, when he’d pushed her to the edge of her comfort and found her eager to leap.

The way she’d surrendered to him completely, and in doing so, had somehow claimed a piece of him in return.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to remain detached, in control. Using her, yes, but never becoming entangled. Never developing feelings.

Never wanting more than the terms of their agreement.

With a sigh, he moved to the bar and poured himself a whiskey. The amber liquid caught the city lights as he swirled it in the glass, thinking of all the ways this could go wrong.

Victor could win the guardianship hearing. Desmond Bane could make good on his thinly veiled threats. The evidence they’d gathered could prove insufficient. Or they could succeed—and then what? What happened when their shared mission was complete? When the bonds that had brought them together no longer existed?

What happened when she no longer needed his protection?

What happened if he lost her?

No.

He drained the whiskey in one swallow, welcoming the familiar burn. He was getting ahead of himself. One problem at a time. First, they had to win the hearing. Then they could deal with the rest.

He poured another drink, remembering the moment when she’d finally begged, shattering the last barrier between them. He hadn’t expected the rush of triumph, the surge of possessiveness that had overtaken him. The driving need to mark her as his, to claim her so completely she’d never forget who she belonged to.

It had been primal, almost frightening in its intensity. He’d never felt that way with any other woman. Never needed to possess, to own, to keep.

But with Sasha, the need was visceral. Undeniable.

He wouldn’t lose her. She was his. He knew it in his gut even if his brain was slow to lock it in.

She was his. Not because of their bargain, but because she’d chosen to be. Because she trusted him. Because she’d given herself to him completely, with eyes wide open.