The smell of sizzling butter and rich, dark coffee drifted through the penthouse, threading its way into the master bedroom.
Ryan opened his eyes. The space beside him in the massive king-sized bed was empty, the sheets still carrying the faint, lingering warmth of her body.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the morning sky was a brilliant, bruised purple, the sun fighting its way through the dense November clouds over Manhattan.
For the first time in weeks, Ryan didn't wake up with his pulse hammering against his ribs.
The Syndicate, the heavily armed PMCs locking down his forty-second-floor office—it all existed outside these walls.
In here, inside the biometric locks and private elevators of Zara's sanctuary, the air was still.
He sat up, the dull ache in his ribs still shifting but manageable. He pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants, leaving his chest bare, and walked barefoot out of the bedroom.
