The doors didn't chime. They hissed.
Three men in matte-black tactical gear stepped out of the elevator, assault rifles raised, expecting to find a corpse. They found a ghost instead.
Jane didn't try to cover her breasts. She didn't shrink away from the blinding halogen lights of the elevator car. She stood completely still, the jagged shard of reinforced glass heavy in her slick grip. The Sovereign’s blood was drying on her bare skin, pulling tight across her ribs like a second corset. The freezing wind howling through the shattered penthouse window whipped her dark hair across her face.
She didn't feel the cold. She didn't feel fear. Extreme pressure didn't make Jane Sterling c***k; it made her terrifyingly practical.
The lead operative froze. His rifle dipped a fraction of an inch.
