The shredded pieces of the legal contract still fluttered to the Italian marble floor like snow, but neither Damian nor Chloe looked down.
Damian’s grip on Chloe’s waist didn’t loosen. If anything, his fingers tightened, pressing through the thin fabric of her dress until she could feel the burning heat of his palm. His gray eyes, usually as unreadable as polished granite, were blazing.
"You," he breathed, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a shiver straight down her spine. "The masquerade night... the silver mask with the white feathers. It was you."
Chloe’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her hands rested flat against his broad chest, feeling the frantic thud of his own heartbeat. "Damian, listen to me—"
"The door was unlocked," a sharp, dripping-sweet
