The safehouse in the French Alps was surrounded by snow, but inside, the temperature burned.
Nicholas sat in a leather armchair beside the fireplace, the flames casting shadows across his bare chest. He held a tumbler of scotch, but his eyes weren’t on the fire. They were on her.
Alina stood across from him in nothing but one of his silk shirts, buttoned wrong, loose against her thighs. The bruises on her inner thighs were fading now, but the memory of how she’d gotten them was etched into her soul.
She had nearly died for him. For Eli. For this family they hadn’t meant to build—but had built anyway through war and blood and mind-shattering orgasms.
“You’ve been quiet since we left Monaco,” she said, voice like velvet.
Nicholas leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m trying to decide if
