The Mafia's Captive Doctor
Damian emerged from the terrace, whiskey glass in hand, his silhouette sharp against the neon-lit Vegas skyline.
His grey eyes pinned her, heavy with intent. A reflex she couldn’t stifle sent her fingers brushing over the book’s spine.
He crossed the room, his steps deliberate, his gaze unwavering. He plucked an orchid from its nest of tissue paper, his thumb grazing its velvety edge before his fist closed, crushing it. The ruined petals fell to the marble like ash.
“He thinks he can claim your mind, milaya,” Damian said, his voice a low growl, the Russian accent curling around the endearment. “My uncle missed the lesson on the Strip.”
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