Cara had always been good at reading men—body language, hesitation, the flicker of truth buried in their lies. But Damon was becoming harder to decode by the hour. And that made him dangerous.
She moved around the penthouse kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but Damon’s black shirt. The hem barely covered her thighs. The bruises he left on her hips a few hours ago were still blooming like dark petals. She liked them. They reminded her of how he’d begged her to let go.
But now? Now she wasn’t sure who had actually let go of who.
Damon emerged from the bedroom, shirtless, his hair a mess, a shadow of confusion still in his eyes.
“You’re up early,” he said, his voice thick with sleep.
“I didn’t sleep,” Cara replied, not turning around. “Too busy thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
She fac
