The dream had teeth. It was an old, recurring nightmare, always waiting for the moment his guard dropped, always ready to drag him under before he could fight it off. It was the primal scene of his life, the fracture point.
The night was unnaturally still—too still. A suffocating quiet that pressed on Luciano's chest like an invisible hand.
He lay in the center of Eloise's vast, luxurious bed, the silk sheets half-twisted around his waist, the scent of her still clinging to the fabric. The city's dim glow leaked through the blinds, painting restless stripes of light and shadow across his sculpted jaw.
His body looked sculpted from marble in the moonlight, perfectly still and powerfully masculine.
But inside—everything burned. The memory was a chemical fire in his blood.
