—Natasha's POV—
The morning light, a cowardly traitor, slipped through the blinds, washing the room in a pale, apologetic gold that felt like a mockery. It was too gentle, too pure for the raw, screaming storm that had torn through the night, for the wreckage it had left inside me. My body was a map of that storm, every muscle aching with a deep, resonant thrum, my skin humming with a heat that felt less like passion and more like a fever. Every breath was a shallow, treacherous thing, pulling in the scent of him—smoke, whiskey, and something wild—and reminding me of what had happened. Or rather, the chilling, gut-wrenching truth of what I had allowed to happen.
Zane’s arm was a lead weight draped across my waist, possessive and final. His breath was a slow, steady tide against the nape
