Evander's POV
I turned at the sound of her voice.
And for a second—just a second—I forgot how to breathe.
Odette stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand brushing the rail like she was walking through a dream. Her hair was done—actually done—soft curls pinned back, a few loose strands falling around her face in the kind of way that made a man think about unpinning them. Her lips were tinted rose, her skin smooth and bright, her dress cinched at the waist and flowing just enough to make it hard to look away.
When I took her, she'd been a mess—damp hair, towel clinging to her, pure fury dripping off every syllable she threw at me. Since then, she'd mostly looked tired, haunted, like she was carrying too much of the world in her small hands.
But this version of her?
This was a problem.
Because the woman standing before me looked nothing like the one I'd taken. She looked like temptation in motion.
