The elevator ride up to the penthouse was suffocating. The air was thick with the scent of my perfume and Damian’s dark, dangerous fury. He didn't look at me once. He stood with his back to me, his shoulders so tense they looked like they were carved from granite.
The doors hissed open. I barely stepped out before Damian’s hand was on my arm, pulling me into the living room. He didn't stop until we were in the center of the vast, marble space.
"What is wrong with you?" I cried out, wrenching my arm away. "You've been acting like a madman since the gala!"
Damian spun around. His tuxedo jacket was open, his tie hanging loose. His hair, usually perfect, was a mess where he had run his fingers through it. His eyes weren't just grey anymore—they were the color of a storm at sea.
"A madman?"
