Before they crossed the threshold of the bedroom, Luciano stalled. He didn't just look at Eloise; he unspooled her with his eyes. The red dress was a stroke of genius—or perhaps a subconscious warning to anyone who dared cross her. It hugged her frame with a silent, dangerous elegance, the crimson fabric making her skin look like cream and her dark brown hair like a spill of ink.
He didn't speak for a long moment, the silence in the hallway stretching until it felt pressurized. Then, his voice came low and rough with something that wasn't quite amusement:
"Paloma…"
The name was a prayer and a threat. He stepped closer, the polished heels of his shoes clicking once against the hardwood. His hands settled on her hips from behind, his thumbs brushing the silk of the dress as if he were testing its tensile strength,
