Jonathan's eyelids felt sewn shut with invisible thread—no, not sewn. Pried open by cruel, invisible fingers that had jammed themselves beneath his lashes and levered his eyes wide against the raw, burning scrape of dry corneas.
He couldn't blink. Couldn't look away. Couldn't even force his lids down far enough to summon the merciful dark.
Some cold, silent, absolute force clamped his gaze on the scene three feet away, pupils blown so wide the chamber light stabbed straight into his brain like needles.
And what he saw was Roxanne—his wife—naked and trembling like a goddess finally allowed to feel.
The deep-blue silk had slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet like shed skin, leaving every lush, bruised inch of her body exposed in merciless detail.
