Billionaire Alpha's 99 Deadly Games novel Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The proximity was intoxicating. Unlike their distant encounter across the stage, Lucas could now detect subtle details that sent shivers of recognition down his spine–the faint jasmine scent that had haunted his dreams for a year, even the staccato rhythm of her pulse visible at her neck.

Each familiar element heightened his impossible suspicion.

Her deliberate silence felt strategic rather than shy. No other dancer in the company maintained this careful muteness–only her.

With an uncharacteristically tentative motion, he reached toward her mask, his usually steady hand betraying a slight tremor. The closer he got, the more his own heartbeat echoed in his ears, his breathing becoming shallow with anticipation.

Aria hadn’t anticipated this direct approach. Based on her years with Lucas, she had expected his typical reaction to being ignored–a flash of entitlement, then dismissal. The Alpha Lucas Thornwood she had known would have scoffed at her silence and walked away, his infamous impatience with “time–wasters” sending him in search of more accommodating company.

She had risked silence as her best defense, never imagining he would simply reach for the mask himself.

As his fingertips hovered mere centimeters from the pearlescent surface, Aria’s entire body tensed, her breath caught mid–inhale.

Just as contact seemed inevitable, a sharp ringtone sliced through the tension.

Lucas withdrew his hand with visible reluctance, reaching for his phone with a suppressed sigh. “What is it?” he answered tersely.

Whatever news came through transformed his expression from intense curiosity to grave concern within seconds.

With a last lingering look at Aria, he turned abruptly and strode away, already issuing rapid instructions to whoever had called.

Only when his silhouette disappeared completely did Aria’s rigid posture collapse. She exhaled shakily, unclenching fists that had been prepared to push him away if necessary.

16:40

Billionaire Alt

Chapter 15

Later that evening, while the rest of the company excitedly departed for a night tour of Southern Crescent’s historic district, Aria declined with a vague gesture toward her throat.

As a former resident who had spent years intimately familiar with every cobblestone and hidden garden, she had no desire to revisit places now tainted with memories of a man who had used her

love as a weapon against her.

After bidding her colleagues goodnight, she settled into the town car headed back to their hotel, eager for the solitude of her room and a long, hot shower to wash away the day’s tension.

The Moon Goddess, however, seemed determined to stress–test her resolve.

As she stepped from the vehicle at the hotel’s entrance, she nearly collided with a small group of men in expensive suits exiting the lobby–at their center, Lucas himself, apparently concluding some business dinner.

Her instinct was immediate flight, but before she could retreat, his voice carried across the short distance: “Wait–please.”

The unexpected “please” almost made her turn, but panic quickly overrode her surprise. She fumbled frantically in her bag, locating and securing her performance mask before reluctantly facing him.

By then, Lucas had dismissed his associates with a curt nod and approached her directly, studying her with that penetrating gaze she remembered too well.

“You’re off–duty now,” he observed, gesturing to her casual attire of jeans and an oversized sweater. “Why are you still hiding behind that?”

Aria realized evasion was no longer possible, but she refused to risk him recognizing her voice. Instead, she pointed to her throat and made a negative gesture that any dancer would recognize as “vocal rest.”

Pulling out her phone, she quickly typed: “Doctor’s orders. Strained vocal cords.”

Lucas nodded with unexpected understanding. “Common in your profession, I imagine. Fifth position is murder on the ankles, too, isn’t it? Especially for principals who spend so much time en pointe.”

The casual reference to ballet terminology surprised her–she had spent countless evenings rambling about dance technique while he half–listened, never expecting him to retain such specific knowledge.

16:40

Pilli

Chapter 15

Before she could react, he continued with an apologetic tone she’d rarely heard from him: “I behaved inappropriately earlier. Let me make it up to you with dinner?”

He gestured toward the hotel’s restaurant. “You must be starving after that performance. All that glycogen depletion needs addressing.”

Again, the specific physiological reference to a dancer’s nutrition needs caught her off guard. She had lectured him about proper post–performance refueling dozens of times, usually while he scrolled through his phone.

She hesitated, mentally calculating the risks of extended exposure versus the suspicion an outright refusal might create.

As if to undermine her resolve, her traitorous stomach growled audibly.

She pressed a hand against her abdomen, unable to hide the flush creeping up her neck.

Lucas’s lips curved into a genuine smile–one she hadn’t seen directed at her in years. “I promise not to interrogate you,” he said, a warmth in his voice that seemed alien compared to the cold, calculating man she had fled. “We can stay right here in the hotel. No pressure.”

This polite, considerate approach was so at odds with the arrogant, entitled Lucas she remembered that she almost laughed at the irony. Was this the same man who had orchestrated ninety–eight humiliations? Who had ordered his friends to trap her in a burning building? His newfound courtesy seemed like the cruelest joke of all.

Recognizing that continued refusal would only intensify his interest, Aria reluctantly nodded her agreement. The sooner she could get through this meal, the sooner she could escape.

The restaurant’s subdued lighting created an intimate atmosphere that did nothing to ease her discomfort.

Despite claiming to be hungry himself, Lucas merely picked at his steak, instead attentively ensuring her water glass remained filled and even cutting her salmon into precise, manageable pieces when he noticed her struggling to maintain her mask while eating.

“The fifth movement of your variation tonight,” he commented casually as she ate, “that arabesque penchée into the fouetté sequence–that was extraordinary. Most dancers telegraph that transition, but you made it seem like water flowing.”

Aria nearly choked on her water. She had choreographed that transition sequence herself, adapting a phrase she had once practiced endlessly in their den while he supposedly worked on his laptop.