Raven slipped out of Vincent's bed before dawn, the black silk sheets whispering against her bare skin like a traitor's promise. Every muscle ached — sweet, lingering proof of the night before. The soreness between her thighs had deepened into a constant, throbbing reminder that refused to let her forget whose bed she had shared. She dressed quickly in fresh tactical pants and a fitted black shirt, strapping her knives back into place with practiced precision. The blade that had kissed Vincent's chest last night now rested cool and familiar against her forearm.
She didn't look back at the sleeping king. She couldn't.
The mansion's corridors were quiet at this hour, but she felt eyes on her anyway. Hidden cameras. Silent guards. Vincent's web was everywhere, and she was now caught inside it.
