The silence in Jaxon’s penthouse was unnerving. No footsteps. No low music humming from hidden speakers. Just the tick of a minimalist clock and the occasional gust of wind rattling the tall windows. It was too quiet, like the air itself held its breath.
Raven moved barefoot across the polished floors, careful not to disturb the pristine order of his home. Every object had a place. Every book perfectly aligned. The space was a study in restraint, but it pulsed with the same dark dominance he carried in every room he entered.
He was gone, that much she knew.
Victor had taken a call and left abruptly. Jaxon had followed after a terse exchange about “a situation in Marseille.” That gave her a window. Maybe an hour, maybe less, but it was enough.
She had memorized the floor plan in her he
