The morning after Damien’s chains, Sierra woke to sunlight spilling across the hardwood floor like an accusation. Her wrists ached faintly from the silk ropes, and the bruises Damien had left on her thighs throbbed when she shifted beneath the sheets. Her body carried the memory of him in every kiss, every command, every claim he had forced on her.
But the house was too quiet.
Too calm.
That stillness was never safety here. It was preparation.
By the time she forced herself into a dress and walked to the kitchen, her instincts were proven right. Vanessa was already there, seated at the island in pale silk, her lipstick sharp against the rim of her coffee cup. She looked flawless, radiant, as though she’d been sitting and waiting for Sierra to enter the room.
“Good morning, darling,” V
