Alara pov
Steam cling to the mirror walls like whispers
The marble bathroom was bigger than my entire childhood apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, but the glass was tinted, guarding us from the world.
And there he was—Ace Wolfe. Shirtless. Steam gliding across his sculpted torso like it worshipped him. His hand turned the dial of the rainfall showerhead, warm droplets cascading from the ceiling like a silk curtain.
I lingered at the doorway, frozen.
He didn’t look at me. Not yet.
“You’re still standing there,” he said, voice low, smooth as the steam.
“Because I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“If this is a terrible idea.”
He finally turned.
And when his eyes landed on me, I forgot my own name.
“Terrible ideas,” he said, stepping closer, “are the ones worth
