I wake up in silk sheets that aren’t mine.
Designer clothes in my size hanging in a gilded cage.
And a price tag of fifteen million dollars on my head.
Then he walks in—salt and pepper hair, cold Russian accent.
But I know those storm-gray eyes anywhere.
Dante Moretti.
My brother’s enforcer.
Seventeen years older and completely forbidden.
“Don’t flinch,” he’d whispered once, backing me against library shelves.
Now he’s bidding on me like I’m merchandise,
Playing the perfect predator to save me from real monsters.
