He was about to take her like she was something holy—something that had never been allowed to feel holy in this room before.
Roxanne's voice cracked the silence, hoarse and wrecked but utterly certain and firm with determination.
"No."
Phei paused mid-step, strong arms still cradling her naked, bruised body against his chest.
"His bed." She turned her head, steel-gray eyes locking onto the other bed—the wide, cold expanse of Jonathan's bed. There was no heat in her voice, only ice-cold clarity. "I want it to be his bed."
Phei's smile sharpened into something dark, possessive, and deeply satisfied. He understood perfectly. He carried her to Jonathan's bed instead.
The bed where the bastard had slept for twenty years without once touching her like she deserved.
The bed that was about to become an altar of worship and ruin.
Phei laid her down with heartbreaking tenderness, as if she were made of the finest glass and spun sugar.
