Elena woke with the taste of blood still on her lips. She had scrubbed her mouth raw the night before, but nothing could erase the phantom smear of Damiano’s thumb pressing crimson against her skin. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop reliving it—the way he’d stood above that lifeless body, calm, unshaken, as though ending a life meant nothing to him.
And the worst part, the part that hollowed her out and left her trembling beneath the silk sheets, was the shameful memory of her own reaction. Fear should have consumed her. Revulsion should have anchored her. Instead, buried deep within, something hotter, darker had flickered to life. Desire, tangled with terror, had betrayed her.
When the heavy oak door of her bedroom creaked open, her breath caught.
Damiano stepped inside,
