I woke in an unfamiliar bed.
A massive, luxurious bedroom that wasn't the one I'd been sleeping in. The morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows told me it was late—maybe mid-morning. I was still wearing the dress from the restaurant, though someone had removed my shoes and covered me with a soft blanket.
And he was there.
Damien sat in an armchair near the window, his large frame somehow looking both commanding and exhausted. He wasn't wearing his usual tailored suit. Instead, he was in a simple black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms. His hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it all night. And his eyes—those predatory golden eyes—were fixed on me with an intensity that made my heart stutter.
"You're awake," he said, his voice rough.
