Wrong Suite, Ruthless Husband

The city of Oakhaven didn't smell like the earth back home; it smelled like wet concrete, expensive gasoline, and secrets.

Elara Thorne shivered, her thin, floral sundress clinging to her skin like a second layer of ice. She had spent her last few dollars on a bus ticket to the city, desperate to find her runaway sister, Mia, before their grandfather's herbal shop was foreclosed.

The address Mia had texted led her here-to the Blackwood Grand, a hotel so opulent it felt like a fortress for the gods of industry.

Drenched and trembling, Elara pushed open the heavy glass doors of a VIP balcony on the 48th floor. She had bypassed security in the chaos of a gala downstairs, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

"Mia? Please tell me you're here," she whispered, stepping into the dim, sprawling suite.

The door clicked shut behind her, locking with a heavy, electronic thud that echoed in the silence. The suite was a masterpiece of shadow and steel, lit only by the silver glow of the moon filtering through the rain-streaked windows. The air was thick and still, carrying the intoxicating scent of expensive sandalwood, aged whiskey, and something more primal-something masculine.

"You're late," a voice rasped from the darkness.

It was a deep, dangerous sound-like velvet dragged over gravel. Elara froze, her breath catching in her throat. That wasn't Mia.

A tall silhouette detached itself from a leather armchair. He moved with the predatory grace of a panther, his presence expanding to fill every corner of the room until Elara felt she was suffocating.

As he stepped into a sliver of moonlight, she saw him: a man built of sharp angles and raw power. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle.

"I... I think there's been a mistake," Elara stammered, her voice trembling. "I'm looking for Suite 802... I must have taken the wrong elevator..."

In two strides, he was in her space. Before she could bolt, a large, warm hand clamped around her waist, pulling her flush against a hard, custom-tailored chest. Elara gasped, her small hands landing instinctively on his shoulders. The silk of his shirt was cool, but the skin beneath was radiating a heat that made her damp skin sizzle.

"Save the excuses," he murmured. His voice dropped to a low, intimate vibration that she felt in the very center of her bones. "My grandmother has been singing your praises for weeks. I suppose you're the 'pure, traditional' girl she promised would 'fix' my cold heart?"

"No! You don't understand-"

Elara looked up, and for a heartbeat, time stopped. She was staring into the eyes of Killian Blackwood, the "Ice King." Up close, he was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at-heavy brows, a nose as straight as a blade, and eyes like molten silver that seemed to look right through her soul.

"I understand that you're soaked to the bone," Killian