The warehouse was cold. Not the kind of cold that brushed your skin and faded. The kind that burrowed into your bones. The kind that warned you—you weren’t supposed to be here.
Cara stepped inside slowly, heels clicking against concrete. Her heartbeat was deafening. Her pulse throbbed between her legs, not just from fear, but from the fire Michael had left burning inside her body, unsatisfied and wide open.
Chains hung from the ceiling. Rusted. Used.
And across the room, tied to a chair and bloodied—was Devon.
“Devon?” she whispered, her voice cracking.
His head lifted.
“Cara…” His mouth was swollen. His eye blackened. “I told you not to come.”
She took one step forward—then the click of a gun stopped her.
“Don’t move.” The voice was smooth. Male. Mocking. And achingly familiar.
F
