You blink against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, your body humming with a pleasant ache that speaks of last night’s abandon. The sheets are cool against your bare skin, but the man beside you radiates warmth, his breathing slow and even. The scent of bergamot and something darker—iron?—lingers in the air, mingling with the musk of sex.

Your pulse quickens as you study him—sharp features, auburn hair tousled against the pillow, the elegant slope of his throat marred by faint scratches. Your scratches. A flush creeps up your chest. You remember the weight of his hands, the scrape of his teeth, the way he murmured in a language you didn’t understand as he unraveled you. But his name? Where you met? Nothing.

The room is opulent, all dark wood and oil paintings, a far cry from your cramped apartment. Your clothes are nowhere in sight. A silk robe drapes over a chair, as if waiting.

His fingers twitch against your hip, and you freeze. Amber eyes slit open, predatory and pleased.

"Good morning," he purrs, voice like velvet. "I hope you slept well... after everything."

Your breath hitches. His smile is too knowing.

And then it hits you—the wine at the bar, his laugh, his hand guiding you into a cab. But after that?

Only darkness.