CHAPTER 403: THE MERCEDES REUNION

The Mercedes-Benz dealership was a cathedral of glass and steel, a shrine to German precision where marble floors reflected vehicles displayed as objets d’art. The Saturday sun, fractured by the vast panes, fell in shafts of liquid gold.

When Eros passed through the automatic doors, the ambient hum of commerce ceased. It wasn’t a sudden stop, but a quick and thorough deceleration, a world grinding to a halt on his axis.

He wore his enhanced form the way a king wore a crown: as a simple, irrefutable fact. Standing a shade over six feet, he was a study in monochrome and intensity—charcoal wool, dark hair swept from a brow that suggested centuries of thought. His eyes, the green of a sea before a storm, seemed to absorb the California light and hold it.

He did not enter alone. His constellation flowed in his wake. First Isabella, a slash of crimson silk and barely leashed Italian fire. Then Luna, a stark vision in black leather whose Chanel No. 5 cut through the showroom’s sterile scent of new car and carpet. Victoria and Anya followed, a study in contrasts—cream and grey, composure and cold calculation. The others came behind them, a spectrum of lethal grace, their presence a silent, coordinated demonstration of power.

The dealership staff froze. A salesman’s hand, reaching to adjust a tie, hung suspended in the air. A dark-haired receptionist gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles white. One of the saleswomen, her blonde hair styled into a careful helmet, made a small, choked sound. Her colleague dropped a glossy brochure, but her eyes, locked on Eros, never followed it down.

"Christ almighty," a man in a forty-dollar suit whispered to the polished floor.

"Watch your language," his manager hissed back, his own gaze rapt.

Eros processed their shock with a detached curiosity, the way a biologist might observe an interesting specimen. He knew the sequence: the initial primal awe, the cascading waves of desire, the spike of jealousy from the men, the envious appraisal from the women. It was a familiar, if tedious, symphony.

Then his gaze swept past the gleaming sedans and SUVs, past the GLE badge glinting like a promise, and the entire dealership, his retinue, the frozen mortals—it all dissolved into meaningless noise.

But then he saw them, and everything else ceased to exist.

The cathedral of glass and steel, the shocked mortals, his own imposing retinue—it all atomized into white noise, burned away by a sun that had suddenly appeared inside the room in form of the six Miami Goddesses

They stood by the display, not arranged, but anchored. Six queens who had carved out their own territory, backlit by the afternoon glow, and the sight of them hit him with the force of a physical blow, a deep, visceral ache that started in his gut and settled heavily in his groin.

Vivienne, a tower of cool intellect carved from dove-grey wool. Her dark hair was pulled back in a stark chignon, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck—a clean canvas he immediately wanted to bruise. When her eyes met his, the flash in them wasn’t just hunger; it was a claim.

Beside her, Celeste

bubbled with a restless, kinetic energy, her petite, curvaceous body poured into a powder-blue dress that whispered of Parisian bedrooms and champagne on the tongue. Her smile was pure, unadulterated mischief, a promise of beautiful trouble.

Anastasia was a statue of ice given form, regal and untouchable in a charcoal gown that clung to her like a second skin. Her silver-blonde hair was a waterfall of silk, but the promise in her ice-blue eyes was a glacial fire, a dare to see if he could melt her.

Gabrielle was pure, unapologetic sin. Her caramel skin seemed to generate its own heat, her wild dark curls a riot around a face of breathtaking beauty. She wore a red dress so tight, so vibrant, it was less clothing and more a battle cry. The cock of her hip was an invitation to a war he suddenly, desperately wanted to lose.

Ashby on the other hand was sharp, precise lethality in black trousers and a cream silk blouse. Her auburn hair was a blade, her eyes a calculating, devouring green. She looked at him not like a man, but like an acquisition she was already measuring for her collection.

And then there was Sophia, standing just a step apart, a soft whisper in lavender. Her dark hair was loose, her smile shy and genuine, but her eyes held a deep, quiet knowing that was more unnerving than all the others combined. She was the secret heart of this formidable group.

Six women. Three thousand miles from Miami. Standing in his path, radiating a power that was an equal, and perhaps a superior, to his own.

Eros stopped walking. For the first time in centuries, he felt the thrill of the hunt being turned on him.

Behind him, Sofia’s laugh was a low, familiar purr, a hand resting possessively at the small of his back. "Your surprise, my love," she murmured against his ear. "I do believe they’ve come to collect."

"Oh God," Celeste breathed, the words a prayer, a promise.

And then she was moving, a blur of powder-blue and unleashed desperation. Her heels struck the marble with the staccato beat of a racing heart, and Eros had only a split second to open his arms before she collided with him.

The impact was a revelation. It wasn’t a clumsy crash but a deliberate, beautiful act of surrender. Her body fused to his, all soft curves and furious need, and her power was a tangible thing, a current that arced between them.

He caught her effortlessly, one hand splayed across the small of her back, the other anchoring her as she locked her legs around his waist.

Her mouth found his in the same instant, a kiss of pure, unvarnished reclaiming. It wasn’t delicate or questioning; it was a brand. Her lips were soft, but the pressure was demanding, her tongue a bold, sweeping stroke against his that sent a jolt straight to his soul.

He tasted the mint she’d chewed to calm her nerves, the ghost of champagne from a flight he hadn’t been on, and beneath it all, the singular, intoxicating flavor of Celeste.

His hands tightened, one sliding up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the silken cascade of her platinum hair. He held her there, a deep, guttural sound vibrating in his own chest. She wasn’t just kissing him; she was pouring three days ofloneliness, and furious longing into his mouth, and he drank it down, giving it back to her as pure, unadulterated relief.

She was the anchor he hadn’t realized he was drifting without.

When she finally tore her mouth from his, it was for a ragged gasp of air. Her face was flushed, her grey—no, storm-cloud—eyes swimming with tears that didn’t fall.

"I missed you," she whispered, her lips brushing his with every word. "I thought my heart would forget how to beat without you here."

"I know, mon coeur," he murmured, the French a balm they both understood. He didn’t spin her. He held her tighter, sealing his mouth over hers again in a kiss that was slower, deeper, a dizzying exploration that promised forever.

This was a savoring, a laying of claim. He poured every ounce of his own achingly silent need into it, letting her feel the weight of his want, the possessive fire that her absence had stoked to an inferno.

She melted against him, a soft sigh escaping her lips into his mouth. He set her down slowly, her body sliding against his until her feet touched the floor, but she didn’t let go, her arms a stubborn, beautiful chain around his neck.

A wicked, radiant smile broke through her tears. "The others," she whispered, her voice thick with bliss and breathlessness. "They’re next. And they are not nearly as patient as I am."

Vivienne moved with the deliberate, measured grace of a queen approaching her throne. Each click of her heel on the marble was a controlled beat in the silent room. But as she drew close, Eros saw the fracture in her composure—the fine tremor in her outstretched hand.

"Eros," she said, and his name, spoken in that low, cultured voice, was a hook in his chest, pulling him in.

He met her halfway, closing the distance and cupping her face in his hands. His thumb traced the sharp line of her cheekbone, feeling the soft skin warm to his touch. "Vivienne."

Her eyes were dark, the pupils dilated, fighting a battle he knew all too well: the mind against the heart.

Her kiss was a revelation. It was nothing like Celeste’s frantic joy. This was slower, deeper, impossibly thorough. It was a kiss of inquiry, of analysis, as if her brilliant mind was trying to categorize the soul-shaking biology of their connection.

Her lips moved against his with a surgeon’s precision, a scientist’s curiosity. But the pressure was pure, unadulterated need.

Her hands, shaking slightly, slid up his chest, mapping the planes of his body through his shirt. Her fingers traced his collarbones, then curled into his hair, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made him shudder.

When she pressed her body flush against his, it wasn’t just an embrace; it was a confirmation. The hard lines of his frame, the soft curves of hers, the heat that bloomed between them—it wasn’t just that they fit.

It was that his body recognized hers on a cellular level, like a complex physics equation that had only one elegant solution: her.

He felt the last vestiges of her control shatter. Her kiss deepened, a soft moan escaping her throat as she abandoned analysis for pure, animal instinct. She was no longer cataloging him; she was consuming him.

When they finally broke apart, it was with a ragged, shared breath. She rested her forehead against his, her entire body trembling with the force of it. "I told myself I could be rational," she whispered, her voice raw. "These days was a statistically insignificant blip. That this...attachment was a temporary anomaly in my otherwise well-ordered existence."

"And?" he murmured, his lips brushing against her temple.