Elena woke to the sound of voices, low, harsh, vibrating through the penthouse walls like distant thunder. For a few foggy seconds, she didn’t know where she was. The silk sheets felt too soft, too unfamiliar. The faint, expensive cologne on the pillow wasn’t hers.
Then everything came crashing back.
The gunshot.
The way Damian’s arm wrapped around her as if she were the only thing keeping him sane.
The desperation, the dominance, the fear, the heat.
She pushed herself upright slowly, wincing as her muscles protested. Her body ached, not painfully, but in that undeniable way that whispered she had surrendered every barrier last night. Damian’s touch was still on her skin, invisible but burning, and his scent clung to her like a brand she couldn’t wash off even if she tried.
The voice
