NOVEL NEXT Chapter 254: The Sinful Ice Queen
Three other women. Same setup—zip-tied, broken but breathing. Wives of Miami's elite: tech execs, pharma giants, social royalty. Charlotte's world. My world.
The terror in that room was oxygen-thick. You could choke on it.
"They took my shares," Margaret blurted, desperation spilling out in jagged bursts. "Five percent of my holdings—they threatened, blackmailed me, hacked my accounts. And—Eros—they know about Charlotte. Her academic documentation. They'll release it if—"
"Margaret." I dropped to one knee beside her, steel in my voice even as my stomach knotted. "Charlotte is safe. Madison's got her. You focus on breathing. I'm getting all of you out."
My words were steady. My pulse was not.
Because whoever set this up hadn't just targeted Margaret. They'd come for me, Charlotte, everything.
And they wanted me to know it.
The relief on Margaret's face gutted me. Tears streaked down her bruised skin, that maternal terror finally bleeding into something softer. "She's safe? You're sure?"
"I promise. Charlotte is safe."
The words felt heavier than any bulletproof vest.
The other women latched onto them like drowning victims to driftwood.
"Please," sobbed Erin Vasquez—yes, that Erin Vasquez, whose husband probably owned half the FDA. "They said we're worth more dead than alive if negotiations fail."
"My kids don't even know I'm gone," whispered another, voice brittle. "My husband told them I was at a spa retreat. If something happens—"
The youngest broke down entirely, choking on her own terror. "They made me watch… they made me watch while they hurt the others. The ones who didn't survive."
The room tilted for a second. Margaret—bruised, trembling, half-broken—still found the strength to lean toward me, her mother's instinct overriding her own trauma. "Eros, please. Save them all. They have families. Children."
Four sets of eyes. Four lifelines of desperate hope.
Sixty seconds, maybe less, before this basement turned into a meat grinder. One stairwell. A dozen armed hostiles inbound.
Taking Margaret alone would be a nightmare. Taking four was basically begging God for a miracle. Problem was—I don't exactly do "God."
"Master," ARIA cut through the noise, voice edged with something dangerously close to fear. "Hostiles at the stairwell. You have forty seconds to decide."
Forty seconds. Four lives. And the crushing realization that supernatural seduction didn't come with a savior patch.
But looking at Margaret's face, and the terror carved into the others, I knew there was only one option I could live with.
I pulled the combat knife, steel gleaming under the strobe of emergency lights. "Everyone shut up and do exactly as I say. We're all getting out alive."
Was I lying? Probably. Was I about to try anyway? Absolutely.
Because this wasn't a rescue anymore. This was my trial by fire.
The real test of what I'd become was about to begin.
**
Helena Voss stood framed by floor-to-ceiling windows, Miami's glittering skyline sprawled behind her like conquered territory. But the city's lights were background noise—cheap jewelry compared to the woman who owned the room through sheer, terrifying presence.
Her grey Armani suit wasn't clothing; it was armor sculpted to lethal perfection. The jacket clung to her torso like liquid metal, cinching a waist so narrow it looked engineered rather than born, then flaring over hips carved with such precision they could've been designed by gods drunk on lust.
The trousers hugged her form with the exactness of worship, hinting at legs that could strangle necks or cradle waists with the same devastating inevitability.
At forty-two, Helena had committed the ultimate crime: she'd stolen time itself. Age hadn't touched her—it had retreated in fear.
Her body belonged on ancient temple walls, immortalized in stone, the kind of perfection that inspired cults, toppled empires, and sent men to their deaths smiling. Among the world's most flawless supermodels, she wouldn't be queen.
She would be deity—the unreachable idol they prayed to for scraps.
She turned from the glass with slow, deliberate grace, and light itself bent to obey her. Caramel skin absorbed the glow and transformed it into warmth so intoxicating it seemed dangerous to breathe. Her black curls framed her like a crown of fire, haloing features sculpted past mortal comprehension.
Her face was round perfection, anchored by glacial-blue eyes that could freeze oceans and dissect souls. Tonight, those eyes betrayed a fracture—something darker coiled beneath the ice. Frustration. Hunger. A serpent twisting behind legendary control.
Full lips, the color of bruised rose petals, pressed into a line so sharp it was almost a blade. Even her irritation radiated seduction, turning flaw into fantasy.
Her chest rose with measured breaths, the controlled rhythm only emphasizing the swell of breasts so generous they mocked physics, so firm they mocked time. The suit's deep neckline framed cleavage like a trap engineered to obliterate rational thought.
Even clothed, Helena Voss radiated raw, destabilizing sexuality—an energy that turned professional space into something closer to a strip club drenched in blood.
Agent Sloane paused at the door, breath hitching like a guy who just realized he'd wandered into the VIP section of Mount Olympus and forgot his invitation.
From behind, Helena was pure temptation in grey wool—the kind of ass that could inspire worship or start a war, tapering into a waist so narrow it should have its own hazard warning, then flaring to hips that could crush egos or stock portfolios with equal efficiency—the high, perky curve of her ass flowing seamlessly into that impossibly narrow waist before flaring to hips that could inspire worship or warfare.
Sloane froze at the door like a deer in headlights—or maybe a guy who just realized God, Death, and a Kardashian all rolled into one were casually bending over his desk.
The fabric clung to every line like it had a vendetta against modesty, worshipping curves that belonged in mythology, not some painfully fluorescent corporate boardroom.
Sloane's mind immediately hit fast-forward on forbidden fantasies: legs wrapped around him, lips gasping his name, manicured fingers clawing patterns on his back like they were leaving a goddamn signature.
He knew those thighs. Not the nice enough for HR type—lethal grace beneath silk skin, strength he'd seen bare during government ops, capable of seducing state secrets or ending careers (or lives) with equal efficiency.
Desire? Luxury. Forbidden fruit. Subordinate-level hell.
Her body that truly defied human comprehension. Breasts that were generously large yet impossibly firm, straining against the grey fabric in a way that suggested the laws of physics bent themselves to accommodate her perfection. Her breathing made them rise and fall hypnotically, cleavage catching the light like a trap designed to destroy rational thought.
He could see it all: those perfect lips grazing his throat, manicured fingers tracing chaos across his chest, the sound of legendary control finally snapping like a Starbucks straw under pressure.
But it was always fantasy.
Always.
Helena Voss didn't do mortal men. She existed in a category above human reach, untouchable even to the three primary investors the bosses—billionaires who probably own more zeros than Sloane could spell—who approached her like she was walking, talking worship.
They'd failed to conquer her, much less him.
During their CIA days, she'd been the Unattainable Ice Beauty. Careers ended chasing her attention. Foreign operatives defected just to inhale the same air. She curated that aura like some influencer with a PhD in chaos: untouchable, untamable, lethal.
The hierarchy was merciless. Titans of finance? Nope. company Presidents? Stuttering schoolboys. And Sloane? Just a field operative whispering fantasies into the dark while she existed in 4K, surround-sound, divine distance.
Helena understood the rules: power wasn't about being desired. Power was about being desired by people who would never touch you, never hold you, never even get close enough to leave a scratch. And Sloane? Left with fantasies that were basically unpaid internships in lust, chaos, and admiration.
"Sloane," Helena's voice sliced through his mental worship like a katana through silk, "I can practically hear you fantasizing about my ass from across the room. Either report your intelligence or go jerk off in private... are you planning to stand there mentally fucking me, or do you have something to report?"