Tall windows that catch the afternoon light.
A slate roof that gleams wet even though it hasn't rained in hours.
Formal gardens frame the entrance, but beyond them, the lawns roll wild toward the pastures, blurring the line between cultivated and untamed.
It's a house that knows exactly what it is.
Confident. Unapologetic. Very Greer.
"Home sweet home," Rev murmurs, and I catch the slight tension in her voice.
This world still doesn't fit her quite right.
She loves Doran—gods, she loves him—but she's still a Raiders of Valhalla girl at heart.
Still more comfortable in jeans and leather than designer dresses and diamond earrings.
I wonder sometimes if she misses it.
The club.
The life we left behind when she followed Doran into his world.
But then he helps her out of the car, his hand lingering on her waist, and she smiles up at him like he's the only thing that matters.
Maybe home isn't a place.
Maybe it's a person.
Maybe that's the scariest thought I've had all day.
We make our way inside and surprisingly, Greer meets us in the foyer, and even after five years, she still takes my breath away.
It's not that she's beautiful—though she is, in that ageless, effortless way that makes you forget to count the years.
It's the way she holds herself.
The way her eyes seeeverything.
The way she commands a room without raising her voice or lifting a finger.
Aleksandr stands beside her, a wall of quiet menace wrapped in an impeccably tailored suit.
His silver hair is swept back from his face, and his pale eyes track our movements with the kind of attention that makes you very aware of your own heartbeat.
I've met him a dozen times.
He still makes my palms sweat.
Everything about him screams danger—not the loud, obvious kind, but the patient, calculating variety.
The kind that waits.
Watches.
Strikes only when victory is certain.
He and Greer are a matched set.
