The heavy aromaof peonies is the first thing that registers in my brain. The scent is cloying and rich, completely detached from the sharp, metallic nightmare I fell asleep in.
I drag my eyelids open, the lashes heavy and sticky, expecting to see the harsh fluorescent lighting of the restaurant's back office. I expect the plastic sheeting. The blood. The men on the floor.
Instead, I am staring at a ceiling of intricate, dark-stained mahogany coffering. The light filtering into the room is muted, bleeding through the edges of thick, charcoal-colored blackout curtains. I push myself up, my palms sinking into a mattress so deep and yielding that it feels like a trap. The duvet pooled around my waist is thick down, encased in crisp, glacial-white linen that rustles softly with my sudden movement.
I look down at myself.
I'm not wearing my denim apron. I'm not wearing my flour-dusted dress or the oversized cardigan I pulled on before leaving the flower shop last night. I am wearing a robe of heavy, liquid silk. It's a deep, midnight black that catches the low light, thefabric sliding over my bare skin like a cool, dark caress. It's the same silk Dominic handed me last night—a garment chosen tomark me as his. It ties securely at my waist, but the realization that he carried me to this bed while I slept—that his hands were close enough to map every breath without my knowledge—sends a spike of pure, unadulterated panic straight through my ribs.
I look at my hands. The scrapes from the rose thorns I handled yesterday morning are still there, pale pink across my knuckles, but the skin around them is unnervingly soft. The faint, expensive scent of shea butter and lavender rises off my skin. The hand cream. He sat in the leather chair beside this bed last night, a man who had just orchestrated a brutal torture session, and mapped every inch of my hands with a slow, deliberate pressure until I passed out from sheer adrenaline exhaustion. Even now, my palms carry the phantom touch of his thumbs—the drag of his grip, the proprietary thoroughness of his touch. He wasn't healing me. He was memorizing me.
The cognitive dissonance makes my stomach lurch. I throw the heavy duvet off my legs and swing my bare feet over the side of the mattress. The moment my toes meet the dark hardwood floor, the chill grounds me.
Get out. You have to get out.
I stand, my legs feeling entirely hollow from adrenaline withdrawal. The bedroom is massive, the scale of it entirely masculine and overwhelmingly oppressive. Minimalist furniture carved from dark woods, bare walls devoid of art, and a massive glass vase on the nightstand overflowing with pale pink peonies. My favorite flowers. He had them brought here in the middle of the night.
I swallow down the bile rising in my throat and move toward the only door in the room. My bare feet are silent on the wood. I reach for the heavy brass handle, my pulse pounding in my throat. I fully expect it to be locked. I expect to pull and meet the unyielding resistance of a prison.
The handle turns smoothly, the latch clicking with the heavy, oiled precision of a bank vault.
I pull the door open and step out.
The hallway stretches out, wide and lined with wainscoting, illuminated by dim sconces that cast long, intersecting shadows. There are no windows here, just the heavy silence of a deeply fortified structure. I don't know where I am in Chicago. I know it's the Gold Coast—I saw the street signs before he forced my head down into his lap in the SUV—but the inside of this brownstone feels like a bunker built for a king.
I move down the hall, the midnight silk of the robe sweeping quietly around my ankles. I follow the faint, rhythmic sound of movement. With every step, the air grows warmer, carrying the sharp, bitter aroma of freshly ground espresso and the buttery scent of toasted brioche.
The hallway opens up into a sprawling, open-concept living space and kitchen. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, though the glass has a subtle, greenish-thick tint to it. Bulletproof. Outside, the sky is a bruised, overcast gray, the choppy waters of Lake Michigan visible over the slate rooftops.
I don't care about the view. I care about the man standing at the massive marble kitchen island.
Dominic Costa.
He has his back to me, working the steam wand of a high-end chrome espresso machine. He's shed the immaculate, blood-spattered suit from last night. In its place, he wears a long-sleeved, charcoal henley that clings tight across the impossibly broad span of his shoulders. The dark fabric stretches taut over the thick musculature of his back and arms with every minute adjustment he makes to the steel pitcher in his hand. His dark hair, starkly threaded with silver at the temples, is slightly damp, curling just over the collar of his shirt.
He looks domestic. He looks entirely normal.
It makes him infinitely more terrifying.
"You're awake."
His voice is a low, gravelly baritone that doesn't just fill the cavernous room; it shifts the gravity in the room. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't even look over his shoulder. He just knows I'm there.
I freeze, my hand clenching the lapels of the silk robe, pulling it tighter across my chest. "How did you?—"
"You breathe differently when you're awake, Sienna," he says calmly, cutting off my question. He turns off the steam wand, the sharp hiss dying instantly. "Your heart rate elevates.I can hear it."
He turns around.
Looking at him steals the air straight from my lungs. Up close, in the city's filtered morning light, his sharp features are dangerously striking. The harsh, aristocratic lines of his face look like they were carved from granite, unyielding and severe. The deep grooves bracketing his mouth speak of a lifetimeof violence and absolute authority. He is forty-five years old, possessing a terrifying, mature gravity that makes the air around him feel thick. His eyes, dark as black coffee, lock onto me.
There is no hesitation in his gaze. No politeness. He looks at me the way a starving animal looks at an open throat. It's a heavy, possessive weight that drags over my messy copper curls, down the pale column of my throat, over the slope of my breasts hidden by the silk, all the way down to my bare toes gripping the hardwood.
A flush of heat explodes across my chest, creeping up my neck. I hate my body for reacting to him. I hate the sudden, pooling heaviness low in my abdomen. I am a captive. I am a hostage. But the primal, biological hum thrumming between us is deafening.
"Where are my clothes?" I demand, my voice cracking despite my desperate attempt to sound brave. "My dress. My shoes. Where are they?"
Dominic picks up a small, matte black ceramic cup, pouring the espresso with a steady hand. "They were covered in debris from the restaurant floor. I had them incinerated."
