The morning sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting long, skeletal shadows across the marble floor. But the light felt cold, stripped of any warmth. I was hunched over the kitchen island, my fingers white-knuckled as I gripped the edge of the counter. A violent wave of nausea surged through me, a physical manifestation of the dread that had been clawing at my throat since I heard the news.
"Elena?"
Damian’s voice was soft, a sharp, jarring contrast to the lethal, commanding tone he had used with the board members only an hour ago. I felt the heat of him before he even touched me. He moved like a predator—silent, purposeful, and overwhelming. His large, warm palm settled on the small of my back, the heat of it seeping through the thin silk of my robe.
"I'm
