The last thread of Michael’s sanity didn't snap. Jane watched it burn.
For a fraction of a second, the towering, blood-soaked man hovering over her didn't move. The silence in the penthouse was absolute, broken only by the heavy, erratic drag of his breathing. The blood she had smeared across his sharp cheekbones starkly contrasted with his pale, aristocratic skin. He looked like a god of war dragged kicking and screaming into the light.
Then, his amber eyes dilated until there was nothing left but a suffocating, bottomless black.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Michael’s massive hands clamped onto her hips, his fingers digging into her porcelain skin with bruising, possessive force. He hauled her off the ruined rug in a single, violent upward motion. Jane’s breath punched out of he
