Stacey's chest tightened.
Inside was a bedroom.
A massive one.
The kind of room you didn't just sleep in—you drowned in.
Black and gray bedding sprawled across the enormous mattress, the kind that looked like it could swallow two grown men whole and still have room to spare. The sheets glimmered faintly in the low light, like silk, like sin, like something he wasn't supposed to touch—but would. The heavy velvet curtains draped over floor-to-ceiling windows that swallowed the whole far wall, suffocating the city beyond in shadows.
If Hunter had yanked them open, the light would've poured in blinding, merciless.
But like this—half drawn—it was perfect. Perfect for hiding. Perfect for wanting.
The illumination kissed just enough of the room to make it dangerous. It lit the bed, mostly. The carved headboard. The sharp silver gleam catching his eye.
Stacey's gaze locked onto it—and something hit him.
Hard.
A flash in his brain.
Bright and violent.
