The velvet trap of Dante Salvatore’s hand remained anchored to Elena’s waist, his fingers pressing into the fabric of her emerald green dress with a terrifying, unyielding heat. Behind her, the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse fortress vibrated faintly against the howling ocean wind. Below them, jagged rocks tore through the black surf of the Atlantic, but the real drop—the real cliff edge—was right here in this room.
Elena forced her breathing to remain shallow. Every time her ribs expanded, the thick, folded edge of Marco Rossi’s transfer logs scraped against the lace of her stocking, a hidden razor blade ready to cut her open if she made the wrong move. Dante’s dark eyes narrowed, tracking the micro-movements of her face, dissecting her panic with the practiced precision of a ma
