I pulled out my phone and punched in the address. My destination was a mere twenty minutes away, so I followed the blinking dot, weaving through narrow cobblestone streets worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
The scent of fresh-baked pastries and coffee drifted from cafés that were just opening their doors. A few locals passed me without hurry, most wearing linen shirts, sandals, and sunglasses already perched on their noses.
I, on the other hand, was dressed for a boardroom.
My fitted blazer clung to my shoulders, my pencil skirt hugged my curves, and the heels clicked awkwardly against the cobblestone. My wardrobe had seemed perfectly reasonable when I left my hotel, but now, as I made my way over the uneven stones, not so much. Each step required the kind of balance usually reserved for tightrope walkers.
I should have turned around and gone back to the hotel to change into something more sensible. But my phone died sinceI hadn’t charged it last night and I wasn’t certain whether the hotel or my destination was closer. I decided on the latter after I bought an old-fashioned city map at the nearby kiosk, and kept on going.
Thirty minutes—and more than a few curious side glances—later, I realized just how badly I’d misjudged both the terrain and the dress code.
I might’ve looked like a million bucks, but climbing hilly streets, navigating sun-warmed pavement, and pretending I wasn’t slowly losing feeling in my toes didn’t bode well. By the time I finally reached my destination, my heart was racing and my blood pressure was through the roof.
I paused at the gate of a vast property, tugging at the sleeves of my blazer, and attempted to compose myself.
The gate creaked open and I wobbled my way up the path. Loose gravel shifted beneath my shoes, and I cursed the day Manolo Blahnik was born.
I had barely reached the top step when the door swung open.
Three figures appeared, and I felt the blood drain from my face.
Because there was the man who had lived in both my dreams and my nightmares for the past decade.
I blinked, worried maybe heat and dehydration had gotten to me. Then I blinked again, but the three figures still stood there.
Lykos Costellostill stood there.
I had made a career out of stitching together minds that were quietly falling apart. Beensuccessfulin that career, even.
It was delicate work. People often thought therapy was about dispensing advice or offering wisdom, but in truth, it was something closer to archaeology. You brushed dust from buried memories. You excavated fragments of pain that people had spent years trying to forget. And above all, you moved slowly,carefully, terrified that one wrong touch might collapse the fragile structure that kept a person functioning.
For years, I’d believed I understood fractures.
Then I’d met this man and suddenly my own mind became ruined. The consequences of a single night’s actions had sealed it that way.
He looked as good as I remembered. Older, yes.
I cataloged him, taking stock of the ways in which he’d changed.
He wore a three-piece suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body. Late-morning sunlight spilled across the front steps, catching his edges in pale gold and sharpening the lines of his face as our eyes locked.
Silver threaded through his thick dark hair, glinting among the locks that I’d once run my fingers over, trying to tame.
He had been handsome then; he was devastating now. His was the kind of beauty that felt dangerous. Brooding. The kind that made people do a double take and then quickly look away.
I had never seen another man with hair quite like his—thick, and completely unruly—or dark, piercing eyes that seemed capable of pinning you in place without a single word.
His jaw was cut from stone, shadowed by a subtle five-o’clock stubble, and his shoulders stretched the clean lines of his jacket with effortless strength.
The raw power rolled off him in quiet, barely restrained waves.
He wasn’t overly bulky, nor was he lean in the way male beauty standards favored. His body carried the solid strength of a man who knew exactly what he was capable of—and had nothing left to prove.
The kind of physique that made hearts race. It had certainly made mine race once ten years ago.
And judging by the sudden, traitorous thud against my ribs, my heart hadn’t completely learned its lesson.
“Lykos,” I breathed. “What… How…”
