The penthouse felt like a luxurious prison. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a glittering view of the city skyline, but Freya saw none of it. She sat curled on the massive leather sofa, wrapped in one of Draven’s soft black shirts that smelled like him — cologne, musk, and the faint trace of their shared sin. Her phone lay dark on the coffee table. Victor’s last words still echoed: If you choose him, you’re no longer my daughter.
Draven emerged from the shower, towel slung low on his hips, water droplets tracing the hard lines of his chest and abs. Even in the middle of this nightmare, the sight of him made her body respond instantly. He crossed the room and pulled her into his lap without a word, burying his face in her neck.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her skin. “I knew the cost.
