Elena paced in the charred corridor outside Killian's office, her pulse racing. Outside the glass, the tempest raged. Rain buffeted the panes with maddened ferocity, and thunder boomed like a war cry above. She was stiff as a taut bowstring from crown to heel. She'd come to summon Killian to account for it all—everything she'd discovered about Victor, about Dante, and on matters Killian had shrouded in robes of power and lies.But at his door now, she stayed.Her hand hovered above the doorknob. Turn it, and everything would be changed forever. Again.She never reached the knocking point.The door creaked open, and he stood there—Killian Graves in a black T-shirt, sleeves rolled up high, dark eyes burning with fire and fatigue. He gazed at her for a moment. Then, silently, he moved aside."Come on inside," he urged softly.She went past him, rain-drenched and still seething. The door swung shut, and quiet was a barbed wire fencing them apart."You've been keeping me at arm's length,"
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