For Me,There Is Only You |18+|

62. The Empire He Built

One moment, I was in Ansel's study. The next, the air around me twisted and warped, pulling me into a spiraling vortex.

My stomach lurched, the sensation like free-falling off a cliff.

And then—suddenly—it stopped.

My heels hit solid ground, the impact jarring after the unsettling weightlessness.

I blinked, vision refocusing to find myself in a vast, open space. Sunlight poured through a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, casting a golden glow across sleek surfaces.

A shaky breath slipped past my lips. My hands, acting purely on survival instincts, pressed against something firm—warm, solid, very much alive.

Ansel.

His arm was locked around my waist like he wasn't entirely sure if I'd stay upright on my own.

Or maybe he just wasn't ready to let go.

"You okay, amina?" His voice was low, smooth, threaded with concern.

I didn't trust my voice yet, so I settled for a small nod and exhaled sharply.

"It seems like you need time to adjust to my teleportation, mate," Zev mused, his tone dripping with amusement.

"Yeah. Time. A lot of it," I muttered. "Preferably with a warning next time."

He chuckled—because of course, my suffering was entertaining to him.

We were in Ansel's office—I could tell.

Wanting a better look, I stepped back.

Or at least, I tried to.

Ansel's fingers flexed against my back, his touch was warm and dangerously distracting.

The hem of my brown crop top had ridden up slightly, leaving my skin exposed to the heat of his palm.

A shiver shot through me.

I looked up at him, questioning.

He exhaled—long, slow, reluctant—like he was debating something before he finally let me go.

I sucked in a sharp breath, yanked my crop top back into place, and wiped my palms against my faded blue denim, trying and failing to rid myself of the ghost of his touch.

Only then did I finally take in my surroundings.

The first thing I noticed was how big the office was.

Not in an over-the-top way, but in a way that made it clear everything had a purpose. Nothing felt out of place.

The room had a sleek, modern feel with a black-and-white color scheme. Everything was polished and clean, the soft lighting making the surfaces shine.

The high ceilings made the space feel even larger.

I took a slow step back, taking it all in.

One side of the office was lined with tall black shelves filled with books. Their spines were neat and untouched, like they were more for display than reading.

Between them were small models of weapons—rifles, handguns, military gear—all arranged so precisely that it was almost obsessive.

These weren't just for show.

They felt personal, like each one had a history.

Some were locked inside glass cases—older firearms, rare combat knives, even a custom-made handgun with an engraved insignia.