The night was quiet, too quiet for a city that never slept. Raven sat curled on the leather sofa of Jaxon’s penthouse, knees drawn up, blanket around her shoulders though the room was warm. Her hair clung damp to her temples. She’d showered twice already, as if water could scrub off the memory of Zane’s hands, Zane’s voice, the smell of his lair.
The elevator chimed softly behind her. Jaxon stepped out, still in the black shirt he’d worn when he tore through Zane’s men to get to her. The shirt was stained with dried blood, none of it his own. He moved like a man made of stone, face set, shoulders heavy.
Raven looked up, but neither of them spoke right away. The silence pressed like a third person in the room.
He poured two glasses of whiskey without asking if she wanted one, set one on
