The air the next morning was honey-thick and too quiet. Even the birds outside the penthouse terrace seemed cautious, as if the storm that had passed had left behind something hungry.
Alina stretched beneath silk sheets, sore in the best way. Her limbs ached from the way Nicholas had claimed her against the door, again on the floor, and then finally—rough, slow, and unforgiving—across the edge of the windowpane, Monaco lights reflecting off her bare skin.
But it wasn’t the bruises he left on her thighs or the heat on her inner flesh that stayed with her.
It was the way he whispered, “If the world comes for you again, they’ll have to go through hell first—me.”
Her fingers curled around the sheets.
From the adjoining room came the faint giggle of Eli and Camille playing. Safe. Home.
Bu
