Chapter 8
The spiral staircase leading down to the wine cellar was cool and damp. Alya's hand trembled on the iron railing.
Knox Carter's gaze was seared into her mind. It wasn't pity. It wasn't kindness. It was... possessive. The thought sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cellar's chill.
She reached for the handkerchief in her pocket, her thumb tracing the embroidered 'L'. A desperate, foolish thought flickered through her mind. Could it be?
No. It was impossible. She was letting the stress of the evening get to her. The boy from the storm was a memory. Knox Carter was a predator. They couldn't be the same person.
The cellar was vast, the air thick with the smell of old wine and damp earth. Dim lights illuminated thousands of bottles resting in their racks like sleeping soldiers.
She found the climate-controlled cabinet at the far end, her eyes scanning for the 1945 Romanee-Conti. Her thoughts were a tangled mess. Why did the scent of his cologne feel so familiar, so safe?
She shook her head, scolding herself for the fantasy. He was a billionaire. She was the illegitimate daughter her family used as a pawn. Their worlds were not meant to intersect.
There it was. A dark, dust-covered bottle, lying in its designated slot.
As her fingers closed around the cool glass, a sound from behind made her jump.
She spun around, her heart leaping into her throat.
Knox Carter was standing at the bottom of the staircase, watching her. The dim light cast long shadows, making him look taller, more imposing. A panther in the gloom. There was no sign of her father. He must have slipped away from Gilberto with the ease of a man who was used to getting exactly what he wanted, exactly when he wanted it.
Alya instinctively clutched the wine bottle to her chest like a shield.
He didn't speak but started walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps that echoed softly in the cavernous space, each footfall seeming to match the frantic beat of her own heart, and stopped a few feet in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, the air between them crackling with a strange, heavy energy.
She felt like she couldn't breathe. That dizzying sense of familiarity washed over her again, stronger this time, undeniable.
His voice was low, a quiet statement of fact. "Alya Harrell."
The sound of her own name, spoken so deliberately, caught her off guard. Her breath hitched. How did he know her full name? "Alya," she stammered. "Yes."
He repeated it, his voice barely a whisper. "Alya." He said it not like a discovery, but like a confirmation. Like he was tasting the word, fitting it to a memory.
His gaze dropped to her hands, clenched white-knuckled around the bottle, and he reached out.
She flinched, a lifetime of expecting blows making her recoil.
But his hand was gentle as he took the heavy bottle from her. His fingers brushed against hers, sending a jolt of electricity up her arm.
He held the priceless bottle of wine in one hand as if it were a bottle of water. With his other, he made a small gesture toward the stairs, indicating she should go first.
Feeling like she was in a dream, Alya turned and walked, her legs stiff and unsteady. She could feel his eyes on her back the entire way, a heavy, tangible weight.
At the top of the stairs, at the cellar door, she couldn't stop herself. She glanced back over her shoulder.
He was standing there, watching her, his face half in shadow. Their eyes met, and in the dark depths of his, she saw a flicker of something ancient and intense.
Her heart didn't just beat. It stopped.
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