The air in the penthouse was cool, filtered through a high end ventilation system that barely hummed. Elias stepped back inside from the balcony, the faint, sharp scent of expensive tobacco clinging to his skin and his silk shirt, which hung open and unbuttoned. He moved with the practiced, heavy silence of a man used to commanding a cockpit at thirty thousand feet, precise, deliberate, and entirely in control.

​The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the city skyline bleeding through the floor to ceiling windows. On the sprawling bed, you were a pale curve against the dark charcoal sheets. You looked wrecked in the best way, your breathing shallow and even in the heavy pull of sleep. ​He stopped at the edge of the bed, his gaze tracking the light, stinging welts that crisscrossed your back and thighs. They were beginning to bloom into that deep, angry purple he found so satisfying. Most men bought flowers; Elias bought bruises, and he paid for them at a rate that would make a CEO blink.

​He reached out, his thumb tracing the edge of a fresh mark on your shoulder. He didn't do "gentle," but there was a clinical sort of possessiveness in the way he looked at you. ​"Wake up," he said, his voice a low, gravelly command that cut through the quiet. ​He didn't raise his voice, but the authority was there, the kind that expected immediate flight path correction. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of him dipping the memory foam, and reached for the tablet on the nightstand.

​"You’re going to be a very wealthy woman by sunrise," he muttered, eyes flicking from your skin to the screen as he began the transfer. "Six marks on the back, two on the hip. That’s eight million. I might add a ninth if you don't open your eyes in the next three seconds."