CHAPTER 69
Ryle’s gaze did not waver under her demanding, furious stare. He took in her naked, challenging posture—the raw evidence of their intimacy—and the intensity in her eyes, yet his expression remained stonily impassive. The blood loss and vodka had been purged from his system, replaced by an unforgiving, cold logic.
Ryle rigidly ignored the stark bloodstain on the sheets—the undeniable, crimson reminder of the night’s profound dual significance: it spoke both of his own compromised state (the bullet wound and the vodka-fueled confusion) and, more intimately, of the raw, undeniable fact that he had been her first. He deliberately compartmentalized this damning physical evidence, refusing to let it penetrate his renewed wall of operational coldness.
Lauren’s fury momentarily stall
