The storm had left a heavy, velvet silence in its wake. The kinetic violence of the missiles, the metallic tang of the surgery, and the digital screaming of the blackwood pulse were now nothing more than ghosts haunting the lower levels of St. Jude's Key. Up here, in the apex of the master suite, the only sound was the rhythmic respiration of the ocean against the glass and the low, steady thrum of the climate control.
Adrian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his silhouette a sharp, dark blade against the silvered moonlight. He had discarded his ruined silk robe for one of charcoal cashmere, his hands folded behind his back, and he wasn't looking at the sea; he was looking at the reflection of the bed behind him.
