EMMA
I saw the car before I saw him.
It was wrong in a way I felt in my bones before my brain caught up—a sleek black sedan easing through the iron gates of Lune Noire like it belonged somewhere cleaner, quieter, more obedient. It moved too carefully, tires crunching over the gravel as if afraid to get dirty.
My stomach dropped.
No.
No, no, no.
I stopped mid-step, my breath hitching so sharply it hurt. Snow crunched beneath my boots, but suddenly I felt frozen in place, every muscle locked.
That car didn’t belong here.
And worse—
I knew it.
The door opened.
Time tilted.
Damien Roche stepped out like he was walking into a boardroom instead of a biker estate tucked against a wild forest. Perfect coat. Polished shoes. Hair styled just enough to look effortless. The same handsome f
