Thirty days ended at midnight.

Luke stood in the middle of Argon’s private penthouse suite, still dressed in the sheer black lace maid lingerie from the final night. His body ached in the best and worst ways, thighs sore, hole tender and still faintly leaking from the endless breeding, skin marked with faint bruises and rope lines. The headpiece sat crooked in his hair now, a crooked little bow that somehow made him look even more ruined.

Argon leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window, whiskey glass in hand, watching him with those storm-gray eyes that no longer felt purely predatory. The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy.

“The thirty days...