The air rushing through the jagged, hollow frame of the shattered windshield was biting, smelling of gasoline and a gathering storm. Inside the cabin, the heated delirium of the last few minutes was violently replaced by a cold, clinical reality.
Malcolm Ford didn't look at Luca. He couldn't. His heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, but the S-tier Alpha in him had already slammed the iron shutters down on his desire. With a jaw set so tight it looked carved from granite, he grabbed his discarded shirt and pulled it over his broad shoulders, buttoning it with fingers that were dangerously steady.
"Stay in the car," Malcolm ordered. His voice was no longer the ragged rasp of a man in the throes of passion; it was the voice of a King issuing a decree of war. "Do not move. Do not look out. Do not come out. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will ensure you never see the city lights again. Stay. Put."
