Page 12 of Suite 7

The door clicks shut behind Anya.

Silence.

The woman stands beside the bed in a form-fitting, mid-thigh black dress and heels that add three inches to her height.

A black silk mask covers the upper half of her face, the ribbon disappearing into honey-blonde hair that falls past her shoulders in soft waves.

Full lips, the bottom one caught between her teeth. Painted red. Armor.

She’s aiming for confident—shoulders back, chin up—but the tension shows. Her hands tremble before she clasps them in front of her. Her chest rises and falls a fraction too fast.

Terrified. But brave.

She shifts her weight, and my gaze falls on a small scar on her right knee. White against golden skin. Maybe two inches long.

Something about it pulls at me. I look away.

She moves toward the bed, one hand reaching out to find the edge. As she settles, a lock of hair drifts loose. She tucks it behind her ear.

The gesture freezes me.

I’ve seen that before. That exact movement. Recently.

My pulse kicks up.

Her blonde hair catches the low light, and I look away.

The exact shade. The texture. The way it falls.

No.

My gaze moves to her shoulder, the narrow slope, the way she holds herself even when nervous. That unconscious elegance threaded through the defiance.

The beauty mark on her left cheekbone. Partially visible at the edge of the mask. Small. Dark. Distinctive.

My heart starts to hammer.

I force my gaze away. At the floor. At the equipment on the wall. Anywhere but her.

This is coincidence. Plenty of women have honey-blonde hair. Beauty marks. A scar in exactly that place.

But I’m pulling up memories I’ve tried to bury.

Last summer. Pool party. Blue swimsuit. A scar on her right knee as she sat on the pool edge arguing with me about architecture, water still dripping from her hair —

No.

I look back at her. Really look.

The tilt of her chin, even now, even trying to be submissive. That can’t-quite-extinguish-it defiance.

The way she clasped her hands in front of her, fingers interlaced, thumbs pressing together. I’ve seen her do that when she’s nervous and hiding it.

The dress. Black and expensive and —

My vision tunnels.

I’ve seen that dress before.