Eloise didn't remember following Ian up the last flight of stairs. Her body moved like it no longer belonged to her, carried forward by invisible strings Luciano had wrapped around her earlier with nothing but a smile, a chilling ultimatum, and the lingering, electric ghost of his teeth on her ear. She was operating purely on instinct and shock.
The faint sting of that bite still pulsed—sharp, electric, almost hallucinatory—like a second, terrified heartbeat throbbing against her jaw. The memory of the violation, the absolute and terrifying intimacy of the display of dominance, was inescapable.
The hallway stretched before her, mercifully warm in a way the cavernous foyer downstairs hadn't been. It smelled faintly of sweet citrus and something darker, smoky, expensively rugged—a scent she was beginning to recognize as singularly him. Always him, a signature invading even the places he wasn't physically standing.
