one
. . .
Calvin
I'm suffocatingin this sea of black ties and diamonds. Another charity gala, another night of the elite patting themselves on the back while writing tax-deductible checks. I stand in the corner, champagne flute dangling from my fingers, watching the crowd with the detached interest of a man who could buy everyone in the room twice over. And thensheappears—a flash of honey-blonde and wide eyes—and my world tilts on its fucking axis.
She's a server. A goddamn server wearing the same black-and-white uniform as the others floating through the ballroom. But there's something about the way she moves, like she's constantly apologizing for taking up space. Her shoulders curve inward just slightly. Her steps are careful, measured, as if she's afraid of disturbing the air around her.
Thirty-eight years on this earth, and I've never felt this pull. This visceral need topossess.
I track her movements through the crowd, watching the way the old money vultures barely acknowledge her existence as she offers them champagne. One fat fuck in a poorly-fitted tuxedotakes a glass without even looking at her face. I want to snap his fingers off one by one.
She weaves closer to my corner, and I straighten to my full height. Six-foot-four of raw power in a custom Tom Ford suit. I'll make damn sure she notices me.
When she turns, our eyes lock for a millisecond. Hers widen—pale blue, like a fucking Montana sky—before darting away. Her cheeks flush pink. The silver tray in her hands trembles almost imperceptibly.
Perfect. So fucking perfect.
I move toward her with the stealth of a predator, cutting through the crowd. She doesn't see me coming until I'm directly behind her, close enough to catch the scent of something sweet and cheap. Drugstore shampoo, maybe. I'll replace it with something better once she's mine.
She turns abruptly, gasps, and the tray tilts. I see it happen in slow motion—the glasses sliding, champagne sloshing. The crash of liquid against my chest. Cold seeps through my five-thousand-dollar shirt.
"Oh my god! I'm so—I'm so sorry!" Her voice is breathy panic, high and sweet. Her hands flutter in the air between us, shaking. "Please, I didn't see you, I?—"
She grabs a cocktail napkin and, without thinking, presses it against my chest. The moment her fingers make contact, even through the wet fabric, something primal roars to life inside me. My cock hardens instantly.
"I'm going to lose my job," she whispers, more to herself than to me. There are tears forming in those wide blue eyes. "This is my first week and I?—"
I capture her wrist in my hand. Her skin is impossibly soft, delicate bones beneath my fingers. I could snap them with minimal effort, but instead, I hold her there, feeling her pulse hammer against my thumb.
"What's your name?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"W-Wren. Wren Calloway." She blinks rapidly, still trying to dab at my shirt with her free hand.
Wren.A tiny, fragile bird. How fucking appropriate.
"Stop." I tighten my grip on her wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough that she freezes. "The shirt's ruined. Doesn't matter."
Her eyes flick to where I'm holding her, then back to my face. She swallows hard. "Sir, I?—"
"Calvin. Calvin Mercer."
I wait for the recognition. It comes a second later, her pupils dilating as she realizes exactly whose clothes she's soaked. Whose hand is currently locked around her wrist like a manacle.
"Mr. Mercer, I'm so sorry. Please, let me?—"
"How old are you, Wren?"
The question throws her. "Twenty-two," she answers automatically.
Twenty-two. Sixteen years my junior. Young. Soft. Untouched, if the way she's trembling is any indication.
Mine.
The thought hits with the force of a sledgehammer. Mine to possess. Mine to protect. Mine to breed. The image slams into my brain with stunning clarity—Wren beneath me, her belly swollen with my child, those innocent eyes gazing up at me with worship and need.
"Are you going to tell my supervisor?" Her voice quavers.