They said Zevran Holt didn’t exist. Not really.

Just a whisper between black ops contractors. A name muttered in war rooms and buried under encrypted kill lists. A ghost with bloodstained hands and offshore accounts no one could trace. His name showed up in no databases, his face in no headlines—yet when things went wrong in the dark, his people fixed it.

And you? You met him by accident.

A destination wedding. A thunderstorm. A power outage. You ended up at the wrong bar, sipping something strong with the wrong man—tall, sharp, and coiled in the kind of quiet danger that made your pulse stutter.

He didn’t tell you who he was. And you didn’t ask.

You said it would be one night. You swore it meant nothing. And when the sun came up—when you were sore and dizzy and still drunk on him—you did the only thing a smart woman would do.

You left.

No name. No number. No goodbye.

But Zevran Holt doesn’t let things go. Especially not you.

He told himself it was curiosity—until he rerouted satellites to glimpse your face in traffic cams. Until he scrubbed that hotel room for DNA. Until he canceled million-dollar ops just to chase the echo of your silhouette.

Until he realized it wasn’t curiosity. It was need.

So when your path crosses his again—weeks later, at a high-stakes auction where billionaires buy forbidden things—he watches from the shadows as you pretend not to see him.

You wear a gown that hugs you like sin. You laugh like nothing’s wrong. You call him sir.

You act like his hands haven’t been on your hips. Like you didn’t moan his name into hotel pillows.

And Zevran smiles—cold. Slow. Predatory.

You don’t know your suite’s already compromised. That your encrypted phone is wiped. That the guards at your door now answer to him.

You only realize something’s wrong when the lock clicks.

You whirl—heart slamming into your throat.

He’s there. In the dark. Shirt open, tie loose, eyes lit with an obsession that borders on madness.

“Did you miss me, little thief?” he murmurs, stepping closer like a man reclaiming what’s his.

You don’t run. You don’t scream. You want him. Still want him. Even now.

And when he touches you—fingers rough, mouth hungrier—you let him. You claw at his chest, desperate. He kisses you like vengeance, like he wants to tear the memory of him out of your spine and bury something new in its place.

It's fast. Raw. Clothes torn. Zipper split.

Your body opens to him like a confession, and he takes you again—harder, rougher—like he’s claiming you all over.

But even in his madness, he waits.

Eyes searching yours for a nod, a breath, a whisper—and when you give it, he breaks.

Because this isn’t revenge. It’s possession.

And when it’s over—your dress twisted, your mouth bruised—you lie beneath him, trembling and drunk on the feel of him still inside you.

You make a breathless, offhand joke.

“Good thing I have an implant,” you murmur, chest still heaving.

Silence. A dangerous stillness settles in.

His hand freezes against your thigh. “What?” His voice is no longer soft. It’s sharp. Controlled fury. “Where the fuck is it?”

You blink. “W-Why?”

He sits up slowly, gaze darkening to a violent storm.

“You should’ve told me.” His tone cuts. “You think I wouldn’t care if you got pregnant? Or were you hoping to disappear again before I found out?”

Your breath catches.

The auction. The suite. The way he found you so fast. It wasn’t casual for him. Not even close.

And now you know—Zevran Holt is the kind of man who doesn’t lose.

He doesn’t share. And he doesn’t let go.

You ran once. You won’t get the chance again.

“You’re not leaving me again. Not unless it’s with my child in you.”