The elevator opened directly into the penthouse at 4:17 a.m., and the first thing I smelled was gun oil and lilies.
Marcus had turned the living room into a war room: blackout curtains drawn, laptops glowing, six new security men in black tactical gear moving like ghosts. The marble still bore faint rust-colored streaks no cleaner could fully erase (Theo's blood, dried into the stone like a warning).
I stepped out barefoot, wearing Theo's hospital T-shirt and nothing else. My thighs were sticky, swollen, aching from the slow, careful sex we'd had in the hospital bed six hours ago (his good hand guiding my hips while morphine glazed his eyes and he still managed to spill so deep inside me I felt it in my throat).
Theo followed on crutches the hospital had forced on him, shirtless, bandage stark white against his ribs. The ruby on my left hand caught the low light and bled red across the walls.
