The pain was still there.
A dull, angry throb beneath her ribs. A reminder. A scar in progress.
Valentina lay in Adrian’s bed not the infirmary, not a panic room. His bed. Draped in black silk, surrounded by the scent of him. Expensive, dark, dangerous. Just like everything about him.
She had insisted.
If she was going to recover, it wouldn’t be in a cage. Not again.
He hadn’t argued. Not really. Just stared at her with those midnight eyes, jaw tight, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss her or kill someone.
Maybe both.
The estate had gone silent after the attack.
Too silent.
Valentina knew what that meant.
Bodies had dropped. Blood had been spilled. Adrian didn’t forgive betrayal—and someone had tried to steal her life right from under his roof.
Now they were buried six feet
