The air in the formal parlor was stagnant, a thick, invisible soup of expensive cologne, aged scotch, and the underlying, metallic scent of male aggression. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun, casting the room in a permanent, amber-hued twilight that felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb.Luna sat on the edge of a high-backed brocade chair, her posture rigid, her knees pressed together so tightly they ached. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers laced together until the knuckles turned white, a desperate, silent anchor to keep from shaking. The ghost of Damon Volkov’s hand still burned on the small of her back, a phantom weight that felt heavier now that it was gone. The absence of his physical claim left her feeling paradoxically exposed, as if the armor he forced upon her had been stripped away, leaving her skin raw to the scrutiny of the room.Volkov stood in the far corner, swallowed by the shadows of a tall bookshelf. He had not moved a s
آخر تحديث : 2025-11-26 اقرأ المزيد