The heavy oak door clicked shut with a finality that seemed to echo through the entire villa. The sound didn't feel like a prison lock this time; it felt like the world outside—the war, the Hawk, and even Marcus's mysterious signals—had been effectively edited out of existence.
The master suite was bathed in the amber glow of a low-burning fire in the hearth. The air here was different from the pier; it was warm, thick with the scent of sandalwood and the faint, metallic tang of the antiseptic I had used to dress Asher's wounds earlier that day. It was a room that felt like him—powerful, silent, and dangerously inviting.
I didn't have time to process the transition. Before I could even let go of the silk robe I was clutching, Asher's hands were on me.
