The door hadn’t even fully clicked shut before Roman’s hand was a vice around my arm. He didn’t say a word, his face set in a hard, lethal mask as he hauled me toward the back of his suite. We blew past the bed and the sleek furniture, heading straight for the heavy walk-in closet.
"Roman, let go—you're actually hurting me," I hissed, trying to wrench my wrist back.
"Shut up for a second," he muttered, his voice low and sharp.
He pushed aside a row of his structured black jackets and shoved me into the far corner of the closet. He didn't stop until we were pressed against the back wall, surrounded by the scent of his cologne and leather.
"The microphones in the hallways are high-frequency," he whispered, his face inches from mine in the dim light. "Marcus has the sensitivity turned all
