Baiting the Wild Heir

My brother wanted me to play the innocent, wide-eyed boy—the kind who could coax his fiercest corporate rival into falling head over heels. Then I laid eyes on Wilder Fox. He had unruly crimson hair, a lean waist, and a reckless, predatory grace that belonged in a high-end bourbon ad. He was an untouchable heir to an empire who treated the world like his private playground: fickle, notoriously hard to please, and utterly ruined by indulgence. And more importantly… I stared at the glossy dossier in my hands, my stomach sinking into my shoes. "Garrett, I’m straight." Later. Wilder was sprawled across silk sheets, a cigarette smoldering between two calloused fingers, looking down at me with heavy, hooded eyes. The pale expanse of his thighs was littered with dark, swollen bite marks. Breathing hard, he nudged my hip with his bare foot. "Still calling yourself straight, Mercer?" A wicked smirk pulled at his swollen lips. "You went straight for my throat the second the lights went down." 1 Three days after I landed back in the States, my half-brother ordered me to seduce a man. We were sitting in the shadowy back booth of a dimly lit cocktail lounge in Midtown. The memory of Garrett’s morning briefing still hummed bitterly in my ears: Remember, Wilder likes them sweet. Fresh. Sincere. You just got back from London. You’re entirely off the radar. You’re his exact poison. "Garrett," I had said, my hands tight on my coffee mug, "is this seriously the best corporate espionage strategy you could cook up overnight?" I didn't even know what the man looked like. Just because my brother was desperate to snag a multimillion-dollar municipal redevelopment project, I was supposed to offer myself up as bait to distract the competition? To a man, no less. "I’m straight," I’d repeated, my voice hollow. "You owe me, Logan," Garrett had replied, sliding a single photograph across the polished mahogany table. "If I hadn’t covered your back in the Holloway house after our father brought you in, you wouldn't have survived long enough to get that degree abroad." He leaned in, cold and calculating. "A trust-fund parasite like Wilder Fox doesn't do love. Relationships are just distractions to him. I need you to make him fall, make him lose his focus, and tear him apart when it matters." I looked down at the photograph. Slender hips, sharp jawline, and a mess of defiant red hair. The man was laughing straight into the lens—feral, unapologetic, entirely unbothered by the world burning around him. A bad boy through and through. The kind who took what he wanted and left a trail of wreckage in his wake. "Can you do it?" Garrett had asked. I had pressed my lips into a thin line and said nothing. 2 Truth was, I wanted to tell him it was suicide. You didn't have to hire a private investigator to unearth Wilder Fox’s reputation; a two-second Google search on Page Six gave you the entire gory picture. FOX HEIR SPOTTED WITH NEW BOY TOY AT HAMPTONS GALA. TEN-DAY FLING BURNS OUT: WILDER FOX BACK ON THE PROWL. THE BLUEPRINT: INSIDE THE BRIEF, VOLATILE ROMANCES OF NEW YORK’S WILDEST BACHELOR. Gossip rag fodder. From top to bottom. As the sole heir to Fox Enterprises, he ought to have been groomed for the boardroom, yet he treated his family’s billion-dollar conglomerate like an inconvenient joke. He drifted through penthouses and after-parties, swapping partners the way ordinary people changed coats. His only tangible achievement was Nocturne, a moody, ultra-exclusive lounge where high-society heirs went to lose their minds. Word on the street was that his father, old man Fox, had finally grown fed up and dumped a mid-tier waterfront bid on his desk to force him into adulthood. Lost in thought, my gaze drifted toward the centerpiece of the lounge. Under the warm pendant lights, a shock of brilliant red cut through the velvet gloom. He was perched lazily on a leather barstool, long legs crossed, a custom charcoal suit hugging the narrow taper of his waist and the lean line of his back. I gave my glass a slow swirl, set it down, and stood up. 3 "Usual. Negroni," Wilder murmured, propping his chin in his hand, his tone effortless and dripping with boredom. Brushing past a stray lock of red hair, I slid onto the adjacent stool and nodded to the bartender. "Make that two, please." "First time here? Haven't seen your face around," Wilder said, turning his head. A slow, speculative brow arched upward. Meeting those amber, amused eyes, a strange stillness washed over me. Garrett had been right about one thing: Wilder Fox was undeniably curious. "Just got back to the city," I said, pitching my voice softer, letting it carry the tentative cadence of someone younger and slightly overwhelmed. "A friend mentioned this place had an atmosphere you couldn't find anywhere else." The corner of his mouth ticked up. "An expat?" "Architecture student," I said smoothly. "Taking a year off to handle some personal family affairs." A half-truth was always the sturdiest shield. If everyone in this zip code traded in fabricated personas, I could play the part just as well. "Fair enough." He extended a pale, ring-adorned hand, his smile teasing. "Wilder Fox. I own the joint. Ring any bells?" I shook my head, keeping my grip light and brief. "Logan Mercer. Should they?" "Ha. Do me a favor and don't look me up," he said, the dry heat of his palm lingering on my knuckles a second longer than necessary before he withdrew. "Trust your gut. Let our first impression be untainted. It’s more fun that way." "Deal," I murmured, watching him while my mind added: Untainted, maybe, but already etched in stone. Irresponsible. Hedonistic. Beyond saving. The bartender set down two crystal tumblers, ice clinking musically. Clink. Wilder tapped the rim of his glass against mine. "Boys like you shouldn't linger in places like this. You’re bound to get picked apart by someone with bad intentions." As he spoke, he loosened the top buttons of his tailored shirt. No tie. Just the clean, porcelain slope of his collarbones on display. The slight upturn at the corners of his eyes lent him an air of effortless debauchery. I had to admit—he was vastly more magnetic in the flesh than in Garrett’s grainy dossier. I offered a modest, disarming smile. "With the owner standing right beside me, I figure I’m in safe hands." Wilder narrowed his eyes playfully. "Just call me Wilder." I took a slow sip. "Wilder." His fingers twitched against the crystal. Beneath his breath, I caught a soft, rough curse: "Jesus." When he looked back up, the tips of his ears carried a faint, dusty flush, though his smirk remained intact. "Where are you crashing while you sort through your family stuff?" "An apartment down by the river," I replied. "It’s quiet. A little too empty, to be honest." His smile widened. "Funny. I keep a loft right around there. If the quiet gets too loud, you know where to find me." Before I could answer, he signaled the bartender. "Mix Mr. Mercer a glass of First Sight." Turning back to me, his eyes caught the amber light. "On the house. Low proof. A toast to meeting by chance." The faint scent of cedarwood and dry gin drifted from his skin, dizzying and sharp. He was undeniably striking, with full lips and eyes that seemed to look at everyone as though they were a secret he already understood. He waited patiently for me to take the bait. "I think I’ll pass tonight. Thank you, though," I said softly, rising from the stool. "I’ve had enough to make me lightheaded, and I’d hate to get reckless." Wilder’s eyebrows shot up. His fingers darted out, hooking lightly into the cuff of my jacket. "Not even a number?" I slipped my sleeve gently from his grasp, stepping backward toward the exit. "Let’s leave the first impression right here. We’ll see if fate orders us a second drink." Behind me came another quiet, startled laugh, followed by the sound of whiskey going down his throat. I didn't look back. 4 Our paths crossed again four days later. Le Mirage. Corner table overlooking the fountain tier. 8:00 PM. The text from Garrett glowed on my screen: 7:57 PM. He should be arriving any minute. Garrett had tipped me off that Wilder was seen around town with someone new, and that they had reservations here tonight. My brother had hounded me all afternoon, terrified that another pretty face would monopolize the target before I sank my hooks in. It was almost pathetic how much stock Garrett placed in my supposed charm. Right on schedule, a tall, languid silhouette stepped past the velvet rope. Wilder had his arm draped casually around a slender, brown-haired boy. He was wearing a fluid black silk shirt, unbuttoned just low enough to be indecent, his long legs moving with easy arrogance. The boy clinging to his arm was pretty in an understated, cherubic way—the soft, doe-eyed aesthetic Wilder clearly favored—but he looked faded next to Wilder’s vibrant, feral heat. "I asked for this table specifically," Wilder was saying, his tone smooth and detached. "The view gives you a clear shot of—" He cut off mid-stride. "A clear shot of what, Wilder?" the boy asked, blinking up at him. I looked up from my menu, affecting mild surprise as my eyes locked onto the crimson-haired man. Wilder dropped his arm from the boy’s shoulder. He closed the distance between our tables in three long, deliberate strides, his eyes gleaming with dark delight. "Well. Look who decided to exist outside my head." "Dining alone?" he asked. "I was—" "Wilder, the water show starts in five minutes," the brown-haired boy interrupted, scurrying over with a sharp glare directed squarely at me before attaching himself back to Wilder's forearm. "Let’s sit down, please?" Wilder looked down at the boy’s hand for two silent seconds. Then, catching the boy by the wrist, he peeled him off. "Go home," Wilder said smoothly. "What? But we just got—" "Do I look like a man who enjoys repeating himself?" Wilder’s lips curved into a smile, but his eyes were pure ice. The boy’s face drained of color. He smoothed his cuffs with trembling fingers and stormed toward the coat check in humiliated silence. Too impatient. Too transparent, I noted silently. Did he really think Wilder Fox was an idiot with an open checkbook? "Mind if I join you?" Without waiting for permission, Wilder pulled out the leather chair opposite mine and settled in. 5 "Not at all," I said softly, keeping my eyes modest. "Small world, Mr. Fox." He leaned back, grinning. "So you figured out who I am." "It’s hard not to be curious about someone who introduces himself as the owner of the hottest club in Manhattan," I replied. "I just didn't expect you to be that Fox." Before he could respond, our server arrived, gracefully setting down a pair of elaborate appetizers. Wilder made a mock gesture of standing. "Ah. Seems I’m interrupting a date." "Stay," I said quickly, offering an embarrassed, sheepish smile. "A friend had an emergency and bailed last minute. I ordered the tasting menu for two... there’s no way I can finish it alone." Wilder looked down at me from across the table, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. "Did you plan this?" "An unfortunate coincidence," I lied without missing a beat. He picked up his water goblet and tapped it against my wine glass. "To fortunate misfortunes, then." Coincidence is a magnificent liar. Wilder picked up his fork, casually asking, "So now that you know who I am—the trust-fund playboy, the tabloid regular—did your pretty little first impression come crashing down, architecture boy?" The crimson hair fell loosely over his forehead. He projected an air of absolute indifference, as though my judgment wouldn't graze him in the slightest. I nudged the bread basket closer to him and answered honestly, "A little." His fork paused. He stared at me. "Psychology calls it the primacy effect," I said evenly, holding his gaze. "The initial impression anchors our perception. It makes us forgive the noise that comes afterward. You feel it too, don't you?" The primacy effect: the cognitive bias that causes early information to carry more weight than everything that follows. A beat passed. "...Cheeky," he murmured, a genuine, startled grin breaking across his face as he looked down. The dinner unfolded with effortless warmth. Wilder asked about my time studying in Europe, swapping stories about his own chaotic stints in Paris and Milan. Listening to him, you wouldn't mistake him for a deadbeat heir; he possessed the sharp, cultured wit of someone who had seen the world and found it mildly amusing. He deftly carved a piece of seared foie gras, lifted his fork, and brought it directly to my lips. "Taste." It was an overt breach of boundaries. An unmistakable test. I hesitated for half a second before leaning forward, parting my lips, and letting the fork slide free. The rich, savory fat melted instantly on my tongue. "Good?" Wilder's eyes darkened, a predatory spark dancing in them. "You look tense." "I am," I admitted, my fingers brushing the back of his hand as I reached for my napkin. Snap. His hand clamped down around my wrist, his skin burning hot. He leaned across the small table, trapping me under his heavy, golden gaze. "You know what I like, Logan. And I’m entirely unattached right now." I met his stare, my expression entirely placid, and said quietly, "Wilder. Let go." He arched a brow. His grin widened by a millimeter, but after a second of silent standoff, his fingers uncurled. "Jesus... you handle me like I’m a dog on a leash." I rubbed my wrist, shaking my head. "Never. I just prefer to sit across from you as an equal." "Then tell me, Logan," he said, the teasing edge softening into something almost earnest. "Do you want to be my boyfriend?" Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, the outdoor fountains erupted into towering plumes of illuminated spray, catching the neon glow of the city skyline. It was the textbook moment for surrender. All I had to do was say yes. I would become the latest ornament on his arm. In two months, he’d tire of me, Garrett would quietly secure the contract while Wilder was distracted, and I would walk away clean. Neither Garrett nor Wilder saw me as an actual person with a pulse. To both of them, I was a variable to be managed. "I’m sorry," I said quietly. "I don't date men." For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock cracked Wilder’s unflappable exterior. His fingertips tapped a restless rhythm on the tablecloth. Then, his shoulders shook with a sudden, breathless laugh. "Give me a shot, Logan. Just one." He leaned in, his voice dropping an octave. "I’ll make you like me." "..." He slid his smartphone across the table, screen open to a blank contact card. "Take my number. In case you find yourself needing a little company." By the time I stepped out of the restaurant, the autumn air had turned sharp. He offered to call a town car for me; I politely declined. I walked down the riverside promenade alone, the cold wind biting my cheeks. My phone buzzed in my pocket. An unsaved number: Thanks for dinner. Tomorrow night is on me. You free? By the way, you look devastating in that cream turtleneck. Don't overthink it—it’s just a fact. 6 Wilder meant what he said. He launched a campaign that was as relentless as it was unsubtle. He clearly had no idea how to court someone through gentle persistence. Money had always solved every obstacle in his life, so he treated courtship like an auction: bouquets of rare orchids arriving at my lobby desk every morning, limited-edition sneakers, high-end watches worth three years of my London rent dropped off in discreet gift bags. He kept inviting me back to Le Mirage, entirely undeterred by my lack of definitive answers. The notorious playboy seemed genuinely, absurdly domesticated. Garrett was thrilled. He reveled in reports that Wilder was spending his afternoons scouring boutiques instead of reviewing RFP documents for the upcoming municipal bid. And me? ...I had no idea where I stood. I couldn't tell if the heat in my chest was the dirty thrill of playing a part, or something far more dangerous. "What’s got you so deep in your head?" The voice came from behind me, threaded with that familiar, mocking warmth. I turned around, clutching two admission passes at the steps of the modern art museum. Wilder wore a charcoal cashmere turtleneck beneath a long, tailored black wool coat. He looked like he’d stepped directly out of an editorial spread. The fiery red of his hair had faded slightly to a warm, burnt copper, falling loosely over his forehead without its usual sculpted gel. It took the edge off him. Made him look almost vulnerable. "Nothing," I said as he reached me. "Just wondering if you were going to leave me standing here." "For you? I’d show up an hour early just to watch you walk up the steps," he teased. "Come on. The galleries are quiet today." I took a few strides forward, realized he wasn't beside me, and glanced back. Wilder had stopped, holding out an open, pale hand with a shameless, crooked grin. "Do a guy a favor. Hold my hand. Please?" 7 The gallery was cavernous and quiet, pale autumn sunlight filtering through the vaulted skylights, gilding the gilded frames in soft amber. Wilder moved through the rooms with surprising familiarity, keeping our fingers loosely laced together, occasionally leaning in so his warm breath grazed my ear as he murmured details about the painters. "You come here often?" I asked. His thumb traced absentminded circles on the back of my hand. "My mother used to bring me when I was a kid. She was an artist. Loved this place more than anywhere in the city." He paused. In the low gallery light, I caught a sudden, brief shadow passing over his eyes. "She passed away when I was twelve. After that, this was the only place where she didn't feel entirely gone. She gave up painting after she had me. I used to think I ruined her life." The confession caught me entirely off guard. A ruthless operative would have seized the opening, using his dead mother as an emotional wedge to pry him open further. But as I looked at the slight downturn of his mouth, I found I wasn't cold-blooded enough to turn his grief into an asset. "I’m sorry," I murmured. Wilder shook his head, tugging my hand gently. "Come here. I want to show you my favorite." His grip was hot and steady. For all his posturing, his skin was remarkably soft against mine. He led me past three interconnected galleries, stopping before a massive, moody canvas. The painting was dominated by an ocean of suffocating, ink-black tones. But dead center, a sliver of pale, incandescent light pierced the clouds, striking a tiny circle of still water below. It hummed with an ache that was impossible to name—loneliness and salvation knotted together. "Don't worry about sounding smart," Wilder said softly. "Do you like it?" "I do," I answered. "Why?" "I like the dark," I said. "It feels safe enough to disappear into. But that light... it reminds you that there’s still somewhere to run toward." It was the story of my entire life. Wilder let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. "Funny. It’s my favorite piece here, but I despise the dark." His voice dropped so low I had to strain to hear it. "Some things happened when I was younger. Ever since, darkness is just... an empty room. No light at all." He squeezed my fingers. "Come on, Mercer. There are happier things to look at." 8 For the rest of the tour, Wilder was a ghost of himself. He stopped whispering in my ear, stopped laughing at his own jokes. He simply drifted alongside me, offering mechanical nods when I pointed out a sculpture. The arrogant, untouchable heir was gone, replaced by someone small and defenseless. Remember who he is, I commanded myself. He’s still a weapon Garrett pointed you at. Outside, under the sprawling limbs of a bare oak tree, I guided him toward a circular wooden bench. "Sit down," I murmured. "Are you alright?" Wilder looked up at me, managing a weak, sarcastic curve of his mouth. "What, worried about me?" "Yes." He was sitting; I was standing. The power dynamic flipped, forcing him to crane his neck to meet my eyes. The mask slipped entirely. "God," he whispered, turning his head away toward the gravel path. "Pathetic. I’m completely pathetic around you." "Wilder—" "I envy you, Logan. Truly." "Envy me for what?" "You’re clean," he said, turning back, his eyes glassy and bright. "There’s a... purity to you I can't even describe." He swallowed hard. "I grew up in rooms where nobody ever said what they meant. Every single person who ever crawled into my bed had an invoice waiting in their back pocket. I knew what they wanted. They never said no to me, they just clung closer and closer... and the closer they got, the less they heard a single damn word I said." He stared at me, his gaze tracing the bridge of my nose, my lips. "You’re different. You’re that light in the painting." The evening wind caught his copper fringe, making him look young, fractured, and terribly exposed. The corners of his eyes were rimmed with pink. Clean? My chest burned with self-loathing. I’m the dirtiest thing that ever walked into your life. A suffocating panic gripped me. I took a half-step back, wanting desperately to run. Grab. His hand caught my wool sleeve. He looked up at me, hair tangled across his forehead, his fierce eyes pooling with unshed tears. "Kiss me," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Please. Just kiss me." ... I didn't think. I reached down, fisted both hands into his lapels, buried my fingers in his hair, and crushed my mouth against his. 9 It was nothing like the gentle seduction I had mapped out in my head. It was violent, desperate, my teeth catching his bottom lip hard enough to draw copper. The taste of salt and blood flooded my mouth, swallowing every lie I hadn't told yet. "Mmh..." Wilder let out a muffled gasp, startled by the ferocity of it. Then, his hands flew up, winding tightly around the back of my neck. He pulled me down harder, parting his lips, surrendering completely to the assault. His neck arched, his lean hips tilting upward toward mine. In a surge of blind frustration, my hand dropped to his waist, digging hard into the lean muscle above his hip bone. "Ah...!" A sharp shudder ran through him. I didn't know who I was angry with. Him, for using his misery to disarm me? Or myself, for feeling like a monster? His eyes were glazed, dazed with tears and oxygen deprivation, when I finally tore my mouth away. "Ha..." Wilder’s chest heaved against mine, his eyes blinking rapidly in the twilight. "Be with me, Logan," he panted, breathless. "I know my track record is garbage. But I mean it this time. Say whatever you want to me, do whatever you want. I’m in." I stood over him, my pulse pounding in my ears, completely silent. Reading my frozen silence as rejection, Wilder’s expression shuttered. He produced a silver lighter and a cigarette with shaking hands, attempting to patch his cool facade back together. "Right. If you don't buy it, forget I spoke. Go on home." "I..." My throat felt like sandpaper. "It depends on how you act." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "If you’re still just a spoiled brat with nothing to show for his life, count me out." It wasn't the script. I was supposed to say yes, hook him, and keep him pliable. Wilder froze, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Then, a deep, resonant laugh tore through his chest, vibrating with sheer, unadulterated delight. "Logan Mercer," he said, rising from the bench and letting his thumb brush my burning earlobe. "Watch me." He pressed the unlit tip of the cigarette lightly against my breastbone, his eyes burning with renewed fire. "I won't give you a single reason to say no." 10 Three days later: the Fox Foundation Annual Charity Gala. I arrived thirty minutes before the scheduled start, but the grand ballroom of the Plaza was already swelling with Manhattan’s elite. Tiered champagne fountains, crystal chandeliers, and an endless parade of diamonds and bespoke tuxedoes. "Mr. Mercer," an attendant whispered, guiding me through the foyer. "Mr. Fox is finalizing his remarks upstairs. Please enjoy the reception." I nodded, stepping into the periphery. This wasn't my world. When my mother fled my father’s family, she severed every tie to high society. To the Holloways, I had always been an embarrassment—an illegitimate son tolerated only because Garrett occasionally used me as a buffer during family disputes. If Garrett hadn't intervened when my uncles were circling like vultures, I might not have survived my teenage years. My mother eventually reclaimed her maiden name, took me with her, and we lived quietly until she fell ill. I returned to New York only because my father’s health had collapsed, triggering a bloodbath over the estate. Garrett and my uncle Richard were at each other’s throats, and Garrett needed every chip he could play. Including me. In the center of the hall, an archival black-and-white photograph hung on an easel: an elegant woman smiling gently, holding a five-year-old boy in her lap. The boy’s grin was radiant and pure—a world away from the jaded playboy I knew. "Mr. Fox has arrived!" A collective hush swept through the room as the double doors parted. A pair of long, perfectly tailored legs stepped across the threshold. Wilder was clad in a razor-sharp, midnight-black tuxedo, the silk lapels catching the light with subtle, understated elegance. His hair was no longer crimson. He had dyed it back to a deep, natural raven black, slicked back from his forehead to reveal the sharp, aristocratic architecture of his brow and cheekbones. Gone was the decadent drifter. In his place stood an heir who commanded the room with effortless authority. "Holy shit, did Fox get an exorcism?" a young venture capitalist whispered nearby. "I thought he was boycotting tonight!" Through the murmuring crowd, Wilder’s gaze swept across the sea of faces with cool detachment. Then, he stopped. His eyes locked onto mine. A slow, private warmth crept into his amber irises. Lifting his champagne flute in my direction, his lips shaped four silent words across the cavernous room: How did I do? 11 For the remainder of the evening, Wilder operated with staggering finesse. He moved between senators, hedge fund managers, and foreign dignitaries with the grace of a seasoned diplomat. When he took the stage for the closing address, his posture was immaculate, his hands steady on the lectern. I watched him from the shadows, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. Was his playboy routine just a performance? A deliberate mask to keep the vultures at bay? And if it was... did I stand a chance of walking away from him intact? "...Tonight, thanks to your generosity, we have secured thirty-five million dollars, every cent of which will be directed toward youth educational initiatives in underprivileged districts." Wilder offered a dignified bow, and the room erupted into thunderous applause. As the crowd began to thin toward the exits, my arm was roughly seized from behind. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?" I turned to find Garrett staring down at me, his eyes bloodshot and venomous. He shoved me behind a massive marble pillar, his voice an incensed hiss. "I told you to ruin him. I told you to make him useless, not turn him into the damn poster boy for civic responsibility!" "Garrett—" "A charity gala?" Garrett sneered, his fingers digging into my bicep. "What’s next? Is he going to polish up his redevelopment proposal and sweep the city council off their feet just to impress you?" I pried his fingers off my arm, my jaw clenched. "This wasn't part of the plan, but you don't know him—" "Are you falling for him, Logan?" Garrett spat, his face inches from mine. "I need corporate dominance, not a tragic queer romance. Are you going to deliver, or are you just as worthless as your mother thought you were?" The venom in his voice was familiar. Back in the Holloway mansion, he had protected me only so long as I remained useful. Now that the inheritance war was peaking, I was just another pawn to sacrifice. "I have it under control," I said coldly. "If I want him to hand over the contract, I have to be the only thing he cares about. Let me work." Garrett scoffed, adjusted his cuffs, and vanished into the crowd. I leaned back against the cold stone pillar, letting out a long, ragged exhale. "Found you." Wilder’s voice cut through the quiet. 12 The top floor of the venue housed a private penthouse suite reserved for the Fox family. Wilder lay sprawled across a deep velvet sofa, having already discarded his jacket and untied his bowtie. The starched white collar was undone, exposing the pale hollow of his throat. "My sanctuary," he said, crooked finger beckoning me forward. "I come up here after these stupid galas to breathe. Tonight’s the first time I didn't come up alone." I sat on the edge of the sofa, looking out over the glittering Manhattan skyline. "So," he murmured, his gaze tracing my profile, "give it to me straight. Did I pass the test? I wrote that damn speech myself. Nearly bored myself to death practicing it in the mirror. Logan, do you ever get exhausted playing the saint?" Every single day, I thought. "I’m used to it," I said aloud, offering a soft smile. "You were incredible tonight. Truly." Wilder chuckled, taking a sip from his glass. The amber bourbon glistened on his lower lip. "Do I get a reward?" I leaned down, aiming for his mouth, but his index finger pressed against my lips, halting me. "Not yet," he whispered, looking up at me through dark, thick lashes. "I want the real answer first. Am I your boyfriend now, Mercer?" His eyes were wide, unguarded, reflecting my own face back at me with terrifying clarity. I ran my fingers through his black hair. "Yes." Wilder let out a breathless laugh, hauling me down by the lapels until I tumbled against his chest. He kissed me hungrily, his hands roaming my back, muttering against my mouth: "What did that Holloway asshole say to you down there...?" My heart stopped. I pushed back, staring at him. "You saw?" Wilder’s hands slid down to my waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles. "Look at you, all jumpy. I saw him grab your wrist by the pillar. By the time I walked over, he took off. Was he harassing you?" Relief washed over me, cold and sickening. "He... he was asking for directions, got aggressive when I blew him off." "Fucking parasite," Wilder cursed softly, his brow furrowing. "Putting hands on you in my building. He’s lucky I didn't break his jaw." I let out a shaky laugh. My brother was using me. I was deceiving Wilder. And through it all, Wilder was the only one in the room acting with something resembling honor. "You’re laughing?" Wilder pouted, tugging at the hem of my shirt. "I was about to lose my mind with jealousy." Before I could reply, he pulled me down again, his lips gentle this time, nuzzling my jaw with clumsy affection. The heat shifted, thick and heavy. My fingers traced his ribs, and he pulled me closer, guiding my weight on top of him. I reached for his tie, murmuring against his throat, "Let me make it up to you." He caught my wrist, his gaze dark and heavy with desire. "You know how this works?" I paused. "What?" "Innocent little virgin," he teased softly, though his pupils were dilated. "Don't worry. I’ll take care of you. It might sting the first time, but I’ll be careful." As his fingers worked my buttons, I hesitated, then whispered, "I want to be on top." He stopped. "I’ve always hated pain, Wilder," I murmured honestly. Growing up in the Holloway house had left me with plenty of bruises; I had zero desire to collect more. Wilder stared at me for a long, stunned second before groaning into the cushion. "Jesus Christ." He looked up, resigned and completely wrecked, his cheeks blooming with heat. "Fine. You win. Take what you want." "Just... go easy. It’s my first time this way, too." I rested my hand tentatively on his thigh, suddenly uncertain. "Show me what to do." Wilder’s face turned scarlet. He kicked my shin lightly, his eyes flashing with mortified indignation. "Are you seriously asking me for a tutorial right now?!" "..." "Shower first," he grumbled, his bare toes hooking around my waist to haul me up. "And use your hands." ...