The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting jagged shadows across the concrete walls. The elevator doors groaned shut behind her, locking them inside together. The air was thick—charged with something darker than just tension.

Lyall stood in front of her, his massive frame radiating violence. His black shirt stretched over his sculpted chest, veins running like rivers down his arms, some of them smeared with dried blood. The mask concealed most of his face, but his eyes… those fucking eyes. Icy, ruthless, and locked on her like a predator deciding if he should devour his prey or let it run for sport.

He looks like he just walked out of a goddamn warzone. And knowing him… he probably did.

"Where the fuck were you?" His voice was gravel, grinding, burning through her skin. He didn’t shout—he never did. He didn’t have to. The weight of his presence alone made her pulse hammer against her ribs.

He took a step closer, the scent of sweat, blood, and steel clinging to him. "Had to put yourself in danger? Had to make me fucking hunt you down?" Another step. His fists clenched, muscles coiling, restraining an anger that could tear through walls.

Her breath hitched. She wanted to fight, to push back, but the way he looked at her… like he could break her or worship her in the same breath.

"You were late."

Lyall exhaled sharply. A hand, scarred and calloused, slammed against the metal wall beside her head.

"You don’t get to walk away from me," he murmured, voice low, lethal.

Her spine hit the cold surface, but she didn't cower. She knew him—knew the war that raged inside him, the possessiveness curling like a beast in his chest. His fingers ghosted over her throat, pressing just enough to feel her pulse riot beneath his touch.