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"Here?" He pounded that spot mercilessly. Bent down and bit my shoulder hard enough to bruise. "You feel me, baby? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes—yes—Marcelo—"

He grabbed my jaw, forced me to look at him. His eyes were wild. Feral. "Say you're mine."

"I—"

He stopped moving. Buried to the hilt. Throbbing inside me but completely still.

"Say it."

I was shaking. Desperate. "Yours—I'm yours—"

He kissed me hard enough to draw blood. Then fucked me like he was trying to brand himself into my soul. The table legs screeched against the floor. I came again, clenching around him so tight he cursed.

"Ruby—fuck—" His rhythm broke. Became erratic. Wild. He buried his face in my neck, teeth on my pulse, and came with a shout that echoed through the empty workshop.

Marcelo buried his face in the crook of my neck, his hot, ragged breaths washing over my collarbone again and again. He didn't pull away right away. Instead, his long arms tightened around me, holding my limp body flush against his sweat-damp chest, his large hand running over my damp back again and again, almost frantically.

"Ruby... Ruby..." he murmured hoarsely, my name trembling on his lips, his voice carrying the dazed emptiness that came with finally letting go.

Every inch of me ached so badly I could barely lift a finger. I rested my cheek against his pounding heart and let the commanding scent of cedar and tobacco surround me completely. Four years of keeping my heart frozen melted away that night, leaving me with an almost absurd sense of longing—a longing for the broad, solid warmth of his chest, for this stolen moment of peace in his arms.

❦ ❦ ❦

Harsh morning light sliced through the tall blinds, cutting the empty room into strips.

My eyes flew open.

I was lying on thick wool batting. Marcelo's black cashmere coat covered me, still warm and smelling like him—sandalwood and something darker.

I pushed myself up on shaky arms, rubbing my pounding temples.

The workshop was silent.

Marcelo was gone.

The floor had been cleaned—his scattered shirt buttons and papers neatly stacked on the corner bench. That precious box of silver lace sat on the table edge. Next to it, a note and a thermos of warm water.

The note was in his sharp, slashing handwriting. "Rocco's downstairs. Had to go back to the estate to handle security sweep for the semifinals. Picking you and Leon up this afternoon for the venue fitting. Sleep a little longer. —M"

Warmth spread through my chest, tinged with something bittersweet. Last night's madness felt like a vivid, impossible dream. I looked at the marks still red on my fingertips, couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips.

Maybe... we really could start over. For Leon. And for this heart that never really stopped loving him.

I took a deep breath, threw off the coat, and bent to grab my knit sweater from the floor. I needed to splash water on my face, then call the hotel suite to hear Leon's voice.

My phone vibrated violently under the coat.

No name. Just an unknown encrypted local number flashing on screen.

My heart skipped. Ice crawled up my spine. I swiped open the message.

A high-resolution photo filled the screen—

Leon's little green dinosaur backpack. The one he carried everywhere.

The zipper's otter charm dangled half-torn. Lying on dusty concrete. And on the bag's crumpled edge—a small, stark splash of dark red blood.