The Masked Siren: Seducing My Enemy

Last night wasn't just the alcohol.

The words left Aine's throat dry and scratchy, scraping against the silence of the room like sandpaper. She sat up in the bed, the sheets pooling around her waist in a mess of high-thread-count gray cotton. Her head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, the kind that sat right behind the eyes and refused to leave.

Augustine didn't turn around. He stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror of his walk-in closet, his back to Aine, adjusting the knot of his silk tie. His movements were precise. Mechanical. There was no hesitation in his fingers, no tremor from the night before.

Aine checked her arms. No bruises. Her legs felt heavy, a lingering soreness in her muscles that spoke of exertion, but there were no marks. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

On the nightstand, a glass of water sat next to two white pills. Acetaminophen.

Aine stared at them. It was such an Augustine thing to do. He managed risk. He managed aftermaths. A headache was just an inefficiency to be corrected.

The bathroom door was still open, letting out a draft of steam that smelled of cedar and expensive soap. He had walked out of there two minutes ago with nothing but a towel around his waist, water dripping down the sharp definition of his abdominals. He hadn't looked at Aine then, either. He had looked through her, as if she were a piece of furniture that had been slightly displaced.

Aine swung her legs off the bed. Her bare feet sank into the Persian rug. It felt too soft, almost suffocating. She reached down and grabbed her silk dress from the floor. It was wrinkled.

"Last night wasn't just the alcohol," Aine repeated, louder this time.

Augustine's hands paused on his tie. He didn't turn. He just lifted his chin slightly, catching Aine's reflection in the mirror. His eyes were dark, devoid of anything resembling warmth.

"I know," he said. His voice was flat. "Your tolerance is three times what you consumed."

Aine's heart skipped a beat. A physical thud against her ribs.

He knew.

He turned around then, walking out of the closet. He was fully dressed now, a suit of armor tailored to perfection. He closed the distance between them until he was looming over the bed, the smell of him-clean, cold, masculine-filling Aine's lungs.

"You went to great lengths to get into my bed, Aine," he said. "So this is what it's about. Is this revenge for the Talley deal collapsing? Did you think sleeping with me would give you some kind of leverage?"

He thought this was about business. He thought this was about a corporate loss. He was closer to the truth than he knew.

Aine let out a short, dry laugh. She stood up, clutching the dress to her chest. She reached out and smoothed the lapel of his jacket. The fabric was cool under her fingertips.

"Leverage?" Aine whispered.