Pierre's room was a masterpiece of calculated luxury. Silk curtains filtered the late afternoon light into honeyed streams that painted the marble floor in warm amber patterns. The bed could have housed a small family, draped in linens that probably cost more than most people saw in a year. Fresh flowers—orchids and jasmine—perfumed the air from crystal vases positioned at strategic intervals throughout the space.
It was perfect. It was beautiful.
It was a fucking prison.
Pierre sat on the edge of that magnificent bed, his hands pressed against his knees, fighting the tremor that wanted to run through his fingers. The pain in his ribs had dulled to a constant, nagging ache, but that wasn't what made his jaw clench until his teeth ground together.
You could have taken it all.
