She could still smell Darius on her skin.
Selene stood at her penthouse’s window, wearing only a silk robe, which did nothing to put out the fire that was still shimmering underneath. Her pulse hadn’t slowed since he walked out without another word. She should’ve called it control—but it felt more like a surrender.
And God, she hated how much she liked it.
She turned away from the glass and walked toward the bar, pouring herself two fingers of whiskey, neat. Her hand was steady, but the rest of her? Not so much.
She took a sip. Let it burn.
Her phone vibrated on the counter.
She ignored it.
When it vibrated again—twice this time—she flipped it over. Rocco. One of her lieutenants. Not someone who called twice unless it was serious.
She answered with a clipped, “Talk.”
“Problem at
