The master bathroom in the penthouse still smelled faintly of cold steam and expensive soap.
Water dripped steadily from the marble counter onto black tile while pale city light bled weakly through the floor-to-ceiling windows beyond the bedroom walls. Galathea Brooks stood in front of the mirror tightening the straps on her boots with wet hair pulled into a severe high ponytail that exposed every silver piercing lining both ears.
The tightness hurt.
Good.
She wanted something to.
The structured black corset top compressed firmly against her ribs while fitted dark pants allowed enough movement for a fight if this turned into one. Her marks remained exposed along both arms, faintly dark beneath pale skin and still pulling heavily beneath the muscle like invisible hands dragging downward toward stillness.
The city vision hadn't left her fully.
Neither had the fear.
Not him.
Not like that.
