The heavy iron door of the cell groaned open, spilling harsh, blinding yellow light into the pitch-black room.

Sienna instinctively raised a hand to shield her eyes, her back screaming in protest at the sudden movement. Two massive silhouettes stood in the doorway, their tactical gear imposing in

Sienna’s mind raced, the gears turning with desperate, frantic speed. The air in Ronan Thorne’s office had grown suffocatingly thin. His grip on her shoulder was a vice of iron and heat, bruising her skin through the thin fabric of her borrowed clothes. His eyes—usually twin chips of impenetrable ic

The dress was a weapon in its own right.

It was a floor-length gown of midnight blue silk, cut dangerously low in the back and featuring a slit that rode high up her thigh. It clung to her curves like a second skin, elegant but predatory. As Sienna stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror of