The sunlight in the penthouse was aggressive. It poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass, illuminating the minimalist white furniture and on the Egyptian cotton sheets where Madison had slept.
Madison winced as a cold cloth pressed against the jagged cut on her cheek. She flinched instinctively, pulling back into the plush leather chair.
"Hold still," Bentley commanded.
He was dressed in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and a gold watch. He didn't look like a billionaire at that moment; he was a smoking hot big daddy in his late fourties. He dipped a cotton swab into a bowl of antiseptic.
"It stings," she whispered.
"Pain is a reminder that you’re still alive," Bentley remarked, his voice a low baritone that seemed to hum in the small space betw
