The air after a hunt always smelled different—cleaned of smoke but not of scars. The house moved with a cautious pride, its staff a little more attentive, its lights set to warmer tones as if to soothe frayed nerves. For the first morning in a week I allowed myself the small indulgence of coffee in bed, Conley’s arm hooked across my waist like an anchor. We lay there in a silence that was more companionship than passion, and I let the hold of his body reassure me that we had, for now, neutralized the danger.
“You look tired,” he said, voice low, kissing the nape of my neck.
“I’m fine,” I lied automatically, because fine felt like armor and armor was useful in the days after scandal. He smiled against my skin, with that private softness that made the world outside his penthouse seem like
