The Maybach pulled into the private underground garage of the Obsidian Tower with a low, imperceptible hum. Throughout the forty-minute drive from the Valleys Country Club, the interior of the vehicle had been wrapped in a suffocating, dense silence.
Damon sat beside me, his long legs crossed, his dark profile illuminated intermittently by the passing streetlights of the city. He hadn't said a word since I shoved his coat back onto his chest at the stables, but the sheer, oppressive gravity of his presence filled every inch of the cabin.
As the private elevator swept upward toward the penthouse, Damon stood with his hands casually resting in his trousers pockets. He tilted his head slightly, his dark grey eyes catching mine in the mirrored stainless steel wall.
"You're remarkably quiet
