Dontrell stood by the home bar, his broad shoulders tense, the shadows playing against his haggard form. His dark, cold eyes burned into me, filled with questions and unspoken anger. His usually pristine appearance was frayed—his shirt hung loose, untucked, and there were faint bruises visible at the edge of his collar. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, and exhaustion clung to him, though it did nothing to dull the dangerous aura he exuded.
“Where the hell are you coming from?” he asked, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence.
I hesitated, forcing my face into a neutral expression as I tried to calm my racing heart. “I was just walking around the compound,” I said, keeping my tone even.
His eyes narrowed, and he took a slow sip of his wine, as though deciding whet
