Lorenzo was gone when she woke, and that unsettled her more than the taste of blood still in her mouth or the ache that throbbed deep between her legs.
He never left first.
Alina sat up in the vast, disheveled bed, naked, sheets twisted around her like the aftermath of a war—and in many ways, it had been. She could still feel his grip on her hips, the echo of his voice, the possessive threat layered in pleasure.
She rose, walked to the window, and stared down at the city that belonged to no one.
Yet.
The sound of stilettos clicking across marble made her turn.
Nerina stood in the doorway, lips painted blood-red, holding a tray with coffee and a file.
“You weren’t supposed to survive him,” she said coolly, placing the tray down. “But here you are.”
Alina wrapped the robe around hers
