The night was still thick with tension.

Elena stood in front of the tall mirror in their bedroom, her bare shoulders glowing in the warm light, Lorenzo’s black shirt slipping down one side of her body. The silence between them wasn’t cold—it simmered with everything they hadn’t said yet.

She met his eyes in the mirror.

His reflection leaned against the doorframe. Shirtless. His muscular frame lined with fading bruises and a fresh bandage on his arm. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes burned with something darker than desire—possession.

“You almost died tonight,” he said.

Elena turned slowly. “So did you.”

“I’m not the one they want,” he growled....