There was something wicked in the way dawn touched her skin.
Alina lay sprawled across the velvet chaise of the Romané penthouse, her legs still trembling, her lips still swollen from the night Lorenzo had claimed every piece of her—over the balcony, across the piano, and finally on the carpeted floor like she was a storm to be worshipped until the world broke.
She hadn’t spoken for hours.
She didn’t need to.
Lorenzo had said it all with his mouth.
But now, as sunlight painted golden lines across the silk sheets, she was no longer a lover drowning in pleasure. She was the woman who had survived the fire and started her own.
Lorenzo stepped out of the bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips, hair still wet, that same half-smirk playing at his lips like he knew she was staring.
Be
