Ava didn't move toward the door. She turned slowly from the window, city lights reflecting in her dark eyes like fractured glass. The predatory grace of her movements had shifted—the hunter now scenting something unexpected, something magnetic.
"You talk a good game, Eros," she said, voice low, rough velvet over steel. "Giving away billions like pocket change. Playing the saint." She took one step closer, then another—closing the space between us until the scent of her (gun oil, coffee, and something uniquely, dangerously female) invaded my air. "But I see the gaps in your story."
Her hand shot out—not fast, but deliberate. Fingers brushed the lapel of my jacket, tracing the line of muscle beneath. Her touch burned through the fabric. "Two billion for damaged goods? Please. You're not a philanthropist. You're a predator playing possum."
