The Bellagio suite door clicked open with a soft chime, and Samantha stepped inside expecting silence—maybe a view of the fountains, a minibar, and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep after her conference imploded a day early. Instead she walked into low lights, the clink of ice in glasses, and three men who turned as one.
Damien stood nearest the door—tall, silver threading through dark hair, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal corded forearms. His eyes raked her slowly, assessing, approving. Cole sat at the poker table they’d dragged into the center of the living room, massive shoulders straining the fabric of his charcoal Henley, a deck of cards frozen mid-shuffle in hands that looked capable of breaking bone or giving exquisite pleasure. Nico leaned against
