We walked together—his hand resting on my waist like a brand, a silent claim. We passed my room and kept walking until we reached his room.
I walked in first. Salvo didn't say a word as he shut the door behind us with a quiet, deliberate Click—like a gun cocking.
And my heart thundered. His footsteps were slow. Heavy. Measured.
Mine were frozen.
The air inside was thick. Intoxicating. It was exactly what I imagined the crown prince of crime would sleep in.
And fuck in.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected shadows back at us. Black velvet drapes, half-drawn like secrets waiting to be exposed. A low-hung chandelier bathed the space in a dim, golden glow. There were no family portraits. No softness. Just leather, expensive liquor, and the kind of power that clung to your skin like cigar smoke and sin.
And in the center of it all—his bed. Large. Commanding. Sinful. Black sheets like ink, waiting to swallow me whole.
