The sunrise over the city didn’t bring warmth, only the illusion of it. Raven stood at the penthouse window, wrapped in a robe she didn’t remember putting on. Jaxon had tried to get her to sleep, but she couldn’t, not after the dock or the Sierra incident and definitely not after Zane’s voice echoing in her skull, cruel and mocking: "You should’ve chosen me.”
She clenched her bandaged hands at her sides, the ache a reminder that she was still here. Still fighting. Behind her, the elevator chimed.
Jaxon entered, dressed in black slacks and a half-buttoned shirt, collar skewed like he hadn’t slept either. His hair was mussed, stubble thick on his jaw. There was no mask today. No tailored composure. Just a man who’d come within inches of losing her.
“Raven,” he said softly, but she didn’t
