Jaxon didn’t sleep. The glass of whiskey in his hand was untouched, the amber liquid trembling with the pulse in his wrist. Outside the penthouse windows, the city gleamed like a predator’s eye, hungry and waiting.
Raven stood behind him, barefoot on the cold marble floor, watching his shoulders rise and fall with deliberate control. He was a man holding back an ocean with his bare hands.
“You’re not saying anything,” she whispered.
“I’m deciding how many of his fingers I’m going to break first,” Jaxon said without turning around. His voice was low, steady, but there was a lethal current beneath it. “Zane thinks he can touch you and walk away. He thinks he’s still untouchable.”
“Jaxon…” She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his arm. He turned then, eyes like dark fire, and caught he
