LYRA
The zipper whispered all the way down, a sound that seemed to fill the whole penthouse. I held the emerald silk against my chest, the fabric cool where it still touched my skin, warm where my body had heated it all night. My heart pounded against my palm, not from nerves – those had vanished somewhere between the Met's empty halls and the yacht bobbing on the Hudson – but from a raw, electrifying desire.
Zeviar hadn't moved. He stood by the windows, the city lights tracing the sharp lines of his shoulders, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on me with that intense focus that always made me feel completely seen. Orion leaned against the sofa, arms crossed, but it was a practiced pose. The muscle in his jaw twitched again, and his gaze had turned dark and hungry.
“Well,” I repeated, soft
