Damon slammed the door to his apartment shut, the sound echoing.
The city lights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting jagged shadows across the leather couches and polished floors.
His apartment smelled of expensive scotch and the faint masculine cologne.
He was already three glasses deep, the burn in his throat doing little to drown out the image burned into his brain: Seraphina speaking to Lucien at the goddamn party.
"Fuck her," he muttered, pouring another splash of amber liquid into the crystal tumbler.
The ice clinked sharply as he swirled it, his knuckles white around the glass.
He couldn't believe Seraphina was being too difficult to handle.
The doorbell buzzed, a low insistent hum that cut through the haze.
Damon ignored it at first, tossing back the scotch.
But it buzzed again, then again. He stalked to the door, yanking it open with a snarl. "What the fu…"
