Cassian kicks the door to his bedroom open with his boot.
He steps inside, and for a moment, all I can do is stare.
The room is enormous.
Walls painted in a deep charcoal shade, furniture sleek and masculine, and the faint scent of tobacco and aged wine hanging in the air.
Everything about this place feels like him: dark, powerful, and untamed.
There’s nothing of the Cassian from the pack here. This man, this version of him, is sharper, colder, and infinitely more dangerous.
He walks toward the huge bed draped in crimson sheets, his movements unhurried but purposeful, and sits me down on the edge.
My pulse jumps; the color bleeds temptation and warning all at once.
He steps back and starts to unfold the sleeve of his shirt, which had been neatly folded after he placed the cufflink
