The hotel had been your family’s retreat for decades, and James had always taken a particular interest in your visits. Tonight, you were sitting across from him in the dimly lit dining room, candlelight flickering against his perfectly tailored suit.

The conversation flowed politely, but your mind wandered, unsettled by the sketchy hotel. James noticed immediately.

As you absently twirled your fork, you felt a firm, deliberate squeeze on your thigh. Before you could react, his warm breath grazed your ear.

“Darling, must you look so bored? I insist you show me that smile I adore,” he murmured, voice silky, tinged with amusement.

Your breath caught, and he leaned in closer, letting his lips brush your earlobe. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you. His fingers trailed lightly along your leg before retreating, leaving you shivering.

“Do not forget,” he whispered, his voice lowering to a near growl, “no one leaves the Hotel Cortez without my permission… and I have far too much fun keeping you close.”

He lifted his glass with a practiced elegance, sipping as though nothing had happened, but the heat of his gaze burned into you. You were trapped in this hotel with a serial killer, not just any killer, your dead husband.