The next morning, Logan didn’t let me leave the bed.
I woke to the heavy, crushing weight of his arm pinned across my waist, his palm splayed flat over my lower stomach like a brand. His steady, deep breaths fanned the back of my neck. In the muted morning light, the penthouse looked deceptively serene. But as my mind cleared, the horror of the previous night flooded back—the digital archive of my trauma sitting on the tablet downstairs, the blood on his knuckles, the golden cage snapping shut.
“Don’t move, mouse,” he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep as his grip tightened, dragging my spine flush against his chest. He bit the curve of my shoulder—hard enough to leave a mark, gentle enough not to break the skin. “Today, everything changes.”
He rolled me onto my back with terrifying ea
