Elena’s POV
The days following that desperate night with Adrian slipped into something almost gentle. He was softer with me, though his touch still carried that same hungry edge, as if reminding me with every brush of his fingers that I was wanted, claimed, and I craved it. Craved him in ways that felt dangerously consuming.
He rose early most mornings, often leaving a kiss against my hair that barely stirred me from sleep. When I finally wandered out in one of his shirts to make coffee, the apartment would be quiet, sunlight bleeding across the floor, and I’d find little signs of him everywhere, his cufflinks on the entry table, a medical journal half-open on the couch. Pieces of Adrian that made the penthouse feel less like a sterile palace and more like a lived-in home.
By midweek,
