The storm had passed, but the air inside Jaxon’s penthouse still felt charged, brittle as glass. Rain streaked down the windows in thin, trembling rivulets, muting the city lights. Raven sat curled in the leather chair, knees tucked to her chest, hands clasped as though to hold herself together. Jaxon hadn’t moved in ten minutes, just stood near the fireplace, broad shoulders casting a shadow over the room. He looked carved from silence itself.
She was the one who finally broke. “You deserve the truth,” Raven whispered.
His eyes, those black, unflinching eyes, snapped to hers. “Then give it to me, little vixen. All of it. No more pieces. No more half-measures.” His voice wasn’t harsh. It was steady, almost frightening in its calm.
She drew in a shuddering breath and told him everything.
