Victoria set a second cup of coffee in front of Elena with a small, assessing smile. Morning light filtered through the kitchen windows in soft gray bands. Marcus stood at the counter buttering toast, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, the quiet domestic picture of a man who had slept well.

Elena wrapped both hands around the warm mug. Her body still carried the deep, pleasant ache from the night before—Marcus had taken her against the kitchen counter after Victoria went upstairs, one hand over her mouth, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave faint marks. He had filled her twice, murmuring filthy breeding talk against her ear...