WNDR9184

Caught in His Possession

The storm hit at nine. By nine-fifteen, the elevator was dead, the penthouse was sealed, and Ronan Voss was leaning against the wet bar with a glass of whiskey and a smile that said he had been waiting for exactly this. You have been circling each other for four months — stolen glances, loaded silences, a tension so thick it has its own gravity. Tonight, forty floors above the city with nowhere to run, he is done waiting. And the worst part? So are you.