Trapped In The Billionaire's Golden Cage

The terror of the chase dissolved instantly under the suffocating presence of the man holding her.

Jenilee's bare toes curled against the cold stone, but her upper body was glued to a chest so broad and solid it felt like carved granite. The drug inside her blood surged, converting every point of contact into electric shocks that fried whatever remained of her rational mind.

"Help me..." she whimpered, her voice a broken rasp against his crisp dress shirt.

Her hands moved on pure instinct, fingers clutching the thick cashmere lapels of his heavy overcoat. She needed friction. She needed cold. She pressed her burning forehead directly into the hollow of his neck, inhaling the sharp cedarwood aroma that seemed to clear the fog in her brain for a fraction of a second.

The man stiffened. His grip on her waist tightened until it bordered on painful, his fingers digging into her soft flesh through the thin silk.

"Do you have any idea whose coat you're grabbing?" the voice rumbled above her, devoid of warmth, dripping with the absolute authority of a man accustomed to crushing empires before breakfast.

Jenilee couldn't answer. The heat under her skin was turning into an agonizing blaze. She let out a soft, shuddering sob and arched her spine, her hips brushing against the rigid line of his tailored slacks.

A sudden, harsh intake of air hissed through the man's teeth.

Heavy footsteps slammed against the glass doors behind them.

"Check the perimeter! She couldn't have jumped!"

Flashlights sliced through the darkness of the terrace, beams of harsh white light dancing across the brick walls and patio furniture.

Jenilee's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She buried her face deeper into the stranger's chest, shaking violently, her fingers tangling in his silk tie.

Instead of throwing her to the guards, the man shifted his weight. With a smooth, sweeping motion, he flared open the heavy panel of his cashmere coat, wrapping it entirely around her trembling frame, pulling her flush against his towering body until she was completely swallowed by his shadow.

The flashlight beam swept over the back of his coat, paused, and snapped away instantly as if the light itself had burned the guard's hand.

"Sir! Apologies, Mr. Barnes—we didn't know you were out here!" a guard stammered from the doorway, his voice cracking with pure dread. "We're looking for a trespasser—"

"Get off my terrace," the man said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't turn around. The command was flat, lethal, and absolute.

"Yes, sir! Immediately, sir!"

The French doors slammed shut. The footsteps retreated in frantic haste.

Silence crashed back over the terrace, broken only by Jenilee's ragged panting.

The coat loosened slightly, but before Jenilee could pull away, a large, calloused hand came up, wrapping around her jaw. Long fingers forced her head back, tilting her face up toward the pale moonlight.

Storm-gray eyes, rimmed with ice and banked fire, stared down into hers.

Deven Barnes.

The ruthless titan of Wall Street. The actual head of the Barnes conglomerate, whose distant relatives Anwar and Clementina were desperately trying to flatter tonight.

He looked at her dilated pupils, her flush-stained cheeks, and the small smear of blood on her swollen lower lip.

"You've been dosed," Deven said, his thumb brushing across her lip, smearing the crimson drop across her skin.

"Cold..." Jenilee gasped, losing the battle against the chemical fire. Her hands slid up from his chest, wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling his head down. "Please... it burns..."

Her lips brushed the hard line of his jaw.

Deven's entire frame locked up. A low, guttural growl vibrated deep in his chest.

"You don't know what you're asking for, little girl."

"I don't care," she cried out, tears of sensory overload spilling over her lashes. "Please..."

Deven's control snapped like dry kindling.

His hand shifted from her jaw to the back of her head, his fingers threading brutally through her dark hair. He bent down and crushed his mouth against hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was an invasion. He tasted of peaty whiskey, mint, and pure, unfiltered dominance. His tongue parted her lips with savage precision, claiming every corner of her mouth, swallowing her desperate whimpers whole.

Jenilee sagged against him, her heels dropping from her numb fingers, clattering onto the terrace floor. She kissed him back with a ferocity born of madness, her nails digging into the thick muscles of his shoulders.

A sharp gust of wind blew across the terrace, carrying the faint echo of wedding applause from the floor below.

The sound pierced the fog in Jenilee's skull.

Anwar. The wedding. The trap.

She panicked. She bit down hard on Deven's lower lip.

The metallic tang of his blood exploded on her tongue.

Deven broke the kiss with a sharp hiss, his eyes turning pitch-black with predatory fury.

"Don't touch me..." Jenilee gasped, shoving against his broad chest with all the strength left in her arms. She staggered back two steps, her bare foot catching the hem of her gown, sending her crashing down onto her knees on the cold stone.

Deven stood over her, towering like an ancient deity. He raised his thumb, slowly wiping the bead of blood from his split lip, staring at the crimson stain on his skin.

Instead of rage, a dark, terrifying amusement curled the corner of his mouth.

"Too late for regrets," he said softly.

He stepped forward, bent down, and scooped her off the floor in one effortless motion, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing at all.

"Put me down!" she choked out.

"Shut up," he commanded, kicking open the private side door that bypassed the public halls, leading straight into the gold-trimmed executive elevator.

He shoved her against the mirrored wall of the elevator cab. Before she could thrash, he ripped off his silk tie with one hand and caught both of her wrists, pinning them flat above her head against the cold glass.

"Move again," Deven whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her burning ear, "and we won't even make it to the bed."