Adrian Cross had never summoned her to the penthouse at dawn before. The hour itself was a signal. Sunrise was for departures, for the quiet aftermath of long nights. It was not for velvet boxes and weighted silence and a man who stood before the glass windows looking, for the first time since she had met him, almost uncertain.

Elena stepped out of the elevator in the dove-gray dress she had worn home to Beacon Hill the night before, still carrying the scent of him on her skin. She had not showered. She had learned that lesson well. The dress was loose and soft, belted at the waist, and beneath it she wore nothing at all. He had not needed to ask; she simply understood now that her body was always to be available, always ready, always bare for him.