Sloane's POV.
The electronic beep of the front door was the first thing that broke the silence.
I didn't move from the barstool. I was still sitting in the dark, my chin resting on my good arm, watching the city lights blink like a million tiny eyes. My shoulder had gone from a throb to a hot, stiff burning that made it impossible to sit up straight. I heard his shoes on the marble floor. He didn't walk like a man who was tired. He walked like a man who had just finished a war and was checking the perimeter of his camp.
The lights in the kitchen didn't flash on. Instead, he hit a switch that brought up a soft, warm amber light from under the cabinets. It didn't hurt my eyes.
"You're sitting in the dark, Sloane," Roman said.
His voice was different now. It wasn't the jagged, cold tone
