The city didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did Alina.
She stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of their penthouse suite, draped in nothing but one of Nicholas’s black dress shirts, unbuttoned and slipping off one shoulder like a whisper of surrender. Her skin still ached from his mouth, from the way his hands had held her down and lifted her up in the same breath. Her body was claimed. Branded. Every inch of her tasted like him.
But her soul?
Still blistering.
The tablet on the glass table pulsed with the files from Lucien’s vault. Secrets. Names. Money trails. Bodies that had never been buried deep enough.
Nicholas came up behind her, wrapping strong arms around her waist, pulling her into the solid wall of his bare chest.
“You haven’t said anything since we got back,” he murmured.
