.
.
.
AUTHOR’S POV
Damon stepped into his penthouse, the weight of Sloane’s limp body cradled against his chest.
She was light, fragile, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck, her face tucked into the curve of his shoulder as she let out a soft sigh.
Her breath was warm, laced with the unmistakable scent of alcohol, and her perfume—sweet and delicate, just like her.
He exhaled sharply, adjusting his hold on her as he crossed the dimly lit living room, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
It was late—too late—and she was too drunk. He had been the one to find her at Vivian’s apartment, passed out, drinking until she could barely stand.
And he knew.
Sloane never drank like that unless she was trying to forget something or it was something she really
