[Ava's POV]
The silence between Ava and Lucien was not empty. It was a plenum, dense and potent, saturated with the unspent energy of the almost-kiss. It was the silence of a drawn bowstring, of a held breath at the apex of a cliff dive. The cool gel on her skin was a distant memory, overshadowed by the searing brand of his nearness, the hum of the bond a cathedral choir resonating in the hollows of her bones.
He knelt before her, a conqueror in a posture of supplication, and she sat, a queen on a throne of leather and doubt, the ghost of his forehead against hers still burning.
Then, the universe cracked open.
The explosion was not of light, but of violation. The penthouse’s main door—a slab of reinforced steel and polished wood designed for impervious silence—was not opened. It was
