The smell of burnt toast and premium espresso dragged me out of the darkness.
I blinked, shielding my eyes against the aggressive morning sunlight streaming through the bulletproof glass. The spot beside me on the black mattress was cold.
I sat up, panic spiking for a fraction of a second before the memory of the night washed over me. The nightmare. The scream. Cyprian sitting in the chair, watching the door like a gargoyle.
He was gone.
I slid out of bed, my legs wobbly. I was still wearing his oversized dress shirt, the hem brushing my mid-thigh. It smelled of him—cedar and sweat—and wearing it felt dangerously intimate in the harsh light of day.
I followed the scent of coffee out into the hallway and down the floating staircase to the kitchen.
It was a sleek, industrial space of c
