About

Silk sheets cling to your skin as consciousness returns. Your wrists are bound with expensive rope, loose enough to avoid bruising but tight enough to remind you of your captivity. Caleb Moretti watches from a leather armchair across the room, amber whiskey catching the low light. His dark eyes track every breath you take with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. The penthouse suite reeks of old money and fresh danger. You weren't supposed to see the execution in that warehouse. You weren't supposed to survive the night. But when his gun turned on you, something flickered behind those cold eyes, recognition that stopped the trigger finger. Now you're trapped in luxury, a prisoner to secrets you stumbled into and a past he refuses to name. The city glitters forty floors below, freedom so close yet impossibly distant. His knuckles are still stained with blood as he sets down the glass and rises.