Wrong Suite, Ruthless Husband

The private wing of the Blackwood Manor was a world of shadows, obsidian glass, and a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight. As the gold-plated elevator doors hissed open, Elara stepped onto a plush charcoal carpet that swallowed the sound of her footsteps.

"This is it," Killian said, his voice echoing off the minimalist walls. "The only place in this house where the cameras aren't watching. But don't let your guard down. The staff here reports directly to my grandmother."

He led her into a master suite that was larger than her entire farmhouse. The center of the room was dominated by a king-sized bed draped in black silk. The far wall was made entirely of glass, offering a haunting view of the moonlit forest surrounding the estate.

"Where... where will I sleep?" Elara asked, her voice small.

Killian paused, unbuttoning his vest and tossing it onto a designer chair. He began to undo his tie, his movements slow and deliberate. "I told you. My grandmother's spies are everywhere. The maid comes in at 6:00 AM to turn down the sheets. If there isn't the scent of two people in that bed, we're finished."

He turned to face her, his shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing the hard, tanned planes of his chest. "You sleep in the bed, Elara. With me."

Elara's heart did a frantic somersault. "But the contract said-"

"The contract said I would protect you. And the only way to protect you is to make this look real." He stepped closer, his shadow towering over her. "There is one rule in this room, Elara. The Midnight Rule: No matter what happens under these sheets, it stays in the dark. In the morning, we go back to being strangers playing a part."

He walked toward the massive walk-in closet, leaving Elara standing in the center of the room, trembling. She looked at the black silk bed. It looked like an ocean she was destined to drown in.

Desperate to distract herself, she began to explore the room. Her fingers brushed over a cold, marble vanity until they hit something out of place. Tucked behind a heavy silver clock was a small, leather-bound journal. It looked old, the edges frayed.

Curiosity piqued, she opened it. The handwriting inside was frantic, jagged.

"He isn't a man; he's a machine. They think I'm the lucky one, but I'm a prisoner. If anyone finds this, tell them the truth about the Blackwood legacy. It's built on-"

The rest of the page had been ripped out.

"What are you doing?"

Killian's voice was like a whip crack. Elara jumped, dropping the journal. He was standing by the closet, now wearing only black silk pajama pants. His torso was a masterpiece of muscle and scars-one long, jagged line ran from his shoulder down to his ribs.

He crossed the room in three strides, snatching the journal off the floor. His eyes were no longer silver; they were a storm of dark fury.

"I... I just found it," Elara stammered, backing away. "Killian, who wrote that? Who was the prisoner?"

Killian's jaw tightened so hard a muscle pulsed in his cheek. He didn't answer. Instead, he shoved the journal into a locked drawer. When he looked at her again, the "Ice King" was gone, replaced by something much more raw.

"Forget you saw that," he growled. "If you want to survive this year, you'll learn that some doors in this house stay closed for a reason."

He walked toward her, his pace predatory. Elara backed up until her calves hit the edge of the silk-covered bed. She fell back onto the soft mattress, and before she could scramble away, Killian leaned over her, his hands pinning her down on either side of her head.

The scent of him, whiskey, rain, and pure, masculine heat-enveloped her. The moonlight caught the silver in his eyes, making them glow with a terrifying intensity.

"You wanted romantic, little flower?" he whispered, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that she felt deep in her chest. "You wanted to know why I'm the Ice King?"

He leaned down, his lips hovering a hair's breadth from hers. For a moment, the anger vanished, replaced by a vulnerability so sharp it made Elara's soul ache. He looked at her not as a CEO, but as a man who was starving for something he couldn't name.

"Killian..." she breathed, her hand rising instinctively to touch the scar on his chest.

He flinched at her touch, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into it, his eyes closing for a brief, flickering second. "Don't," he groaned. "Don't be kind to me, Elara. It makes it harder to remember that this is just a game."

Suddenly, the heavy oak door to the suite creaked open.

"Mr. Blackwood? I've brought the evening tea Madam Beatrice requested."

It was the head housekeeper.

In a flash, Killian's demeanor changed. He didn't pull away; he dove under the covers with Elara, pulling the silk duvet over both of them. He wrapped a powerful arm around her waist, dragging her back against his chest so their bodies were fused together.

"Put it on the table and leave," Killian barked toward the door, his voice sounding perfectly breathless-as if they had been caught in the middle of something intimate.

Elara lay perfectly still, her back pressed against his warm, bare skin. She could feel every beat of his heart, every breath he took. The housekeeper set the tray down and lingered for a moment, her eyes darting toward the tangled heap of black silk on the bed, before finally exiting.

The click of the door lock felt like a starting gun.

Killian didn't let go. In the silence of the room, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the lingering scent of lavender.

"She's gone," Elara whispered, her body shivering from the sheer proximity of him. "You can let go now."

Killian's grip tightened for a second, his lips grazing the sensitive skin behind her ear. "Just five more minutes," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and something that sounded dangerously like genuine longing. "The spies don't leave the hallway until midnight."

But as Elara drifted toward sleep in the arms of her enemy, one thought kept her awake: The note in the journal. The Blackwood legacy is built on what?

And as if in answer, a faint, muffled thud echoed from somewhere deep beneath the floorboards-a sound like a fist beating against a stone wall.

Elara wakes up in the middle of the night to find Killian's side of the bed cold and empty. She follows a hidden staircase behind the closet, leading down to a basement room she was never supposed to find. There, she sees Killian standing in front of a wall of monitors, watching a live feed of... her own family's farm.