Raven stood outside the heavy oak doors of Vincent De Luca's private quarters, her pulse still thrumming from the tunnel kill. Blood flecked her black tactical gear—tiny dark stars against the matte fabric. The soreness between her legs pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a filthy reminder of what he had done to her two nights ago. She had washed her hands in the basin down the hall, but the metallic scent clung to her skin like a confession.
She shouldn't go in. Every instinct drilled into her since childhood screamed that entering the lion's den willingly was suicide. Yet here she was, fingers brushing the cold brass handle.
The door opened before she could knock.
Vincent stood framed in the low golden light of the room, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His dark eyes dragged over her slowly—taking in the blood, the knife still strapped to her thigh, the way her chest rose and fell with residual adrenaline. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
