The morning sunlight filtered through the penthouse windows in slow, golden shards. Raven stirred beneath the sheets, the space beside her cold. Jaxon was already up. She could hear faint sounds, muffled footsteps, the hiss of espresso, the rustle of newspapers.
She lay still, her nerves pulled tight under her skin.
Last night felt like a dream soaked in guilt and pleasure. His touch had been reverent, his body a balm against the guilt that rotted her from the inside, but now, the clarity of morning was brutal. Sharp. Unforgiving.
When she finally emerged, Jaxon was at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled, black coffee in hand. He didn’t look up when she padded in barefoot.
“You sleep?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Some.”
He finally glanced at her. Not smiling. Not scowling. Just… watchin
