"Going down, little bird?" Victor asked, his voice dark and heavy with a promise of ruin.

Clara stood frozen for a fraction of a second, the heavy brass doors of the penthouse elevator sliding shut behind her, sealing them into the intimate, mahogany-paneled space. The scent of him—cedar, bergamot,

Chaos reigned.

Another explosion rattled the foundation of the St. Regis, sending a spray of plaster and dust raining down from the ceiling of the coatroom. The screams from the ballroom outside were deafening—a horrifying symphony of panicked socialites, shattering crystal, and the relentless, me

The ringing in Clara Vance’s ears was a high, continuous screech, drowning out the chaos that had consumed the grand ballroom. The air was thick with the acrid stench of cordite, shattered crystal, and the unmistakable, metallic tang of blood.

Victor’s blood.

He lay motionless across her lap, hi