Dimitri sat in the darkness, his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal the tense, strained veins beneath his skin. His dark hair was a ruined mess, the result of fingers constantly tearing through it in a rare, terrifying display of unraveled control.
On the low table beside him sat a bottle of amber liquor—He didn't usually drink. Alcohol was a chemical that dulled the the senses and slowed the reflexes.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.
He saw the way the wind moved through her hair, the way she looked at Saint, and the fury that had possessed him when another man dared to touch her waist. He had thought it was just a distraction. He had told himself she was a tool, a passing phase.
Dimitri closed his eyes, a dry, humorless laugh escaping his throat.
