A knock.
Not a pounding.
Not a door-shattering impact.
A knock.
Slow. Deliberate. Trembling with restrained force.
The kind of knock that says:I am trying very hard not to break this door down.
I don't move.
I can't move.
Another knock.
Softer this time.
Almost hesitant.
"Tamsin."
His voice.
Deep. Gravelly. Raw.
"Please."
That single word breaks me.
I cross the room in three steps and yank the door open.
And there he is.
Cyprian.
Filling my entire hallway.
Seven feet of slate-gray skin and massive, folded wings and burning amber veins that pulse with incandescent gold light.
But he's different.
His posture is wrong.
Not the rigid, controlled stance of the security mogul I met three months ago.
Not the stone-faced titan who sat in my massage suite and refused to show weakness.
This is something else entirely.
His shoulders are hunched. His wings are trembling. His hands—those massive, clawed hands—are clenched into fists at his sides, shaking with the effort of holding still.
And his face.
His face iswrecked.
His amber eyes are wide and desperate, glowing so bright they're almost painful to look at. His jaw is tight, his expression raw and unguarded in a way I have never seen.
