He didn’t knock, didn’t call, didn’t even send for her like he usually did. Jaxon Morreau just walked into her hotel room at 1:37 a.m., a storm wrapped in black silk.
Raven sat up in bed, heart immediately hammering. She’d been half-asleep, dreaming of sirens and blood on marble. The sight of him in her doorway, shadowed and seething, felt like a continuation of the dream, only worse, because it was real.
“Jaxon?”
“Get up.”
His voice was quiet, but it cut through her like a blade. She rose without arguing, dragging the sheets around her. He didn’t wait. Just turned and walked deeper into the room, pacing like he was holding something back.
“What happened?” she asked.
He turned and when their eyes met, the room tilted. She’d seen him angry before, cold and controlled, but this wasn’t
