The mate bond didn’t stretch like a rubber band. It tore like wet paper.
A jagged, agonizing friction dragged right behind Jane’s sternum with every floor the private elevator ascended. She could feel the exact moment the heavy silver chains locked around Michael’s throat. It registered in her own body as a suffocating, burning weight.
Ryan shoved her out of the steel elevator doors.
She hit the white marble of the Alpha suite’s foyer hard. Her knees bruised, but she didn’t make a sound. Her designer silk dress was shredded, heavy and stiff with Michael’s blood. It left a dark, smeared trail across the pristine stone.
The penthouse smelled like freesia and industrial glass cleaner. The cloying sweetness of it, mixed with the copper tang drying on her skin, made her want to vomit.
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