When they reached the massive double doors of his private suite, carved from dark mahogany and guarded by two discreet security panels, Lena’s breath hitched.
“No,” she whispered, summoning whatever scrap of strength remained in her fragile frame. “Zayn, put me down. I’m not going in there.”
“You are,” he said, voice low and iron-clad, “and you know why.”
“Because you’re insane,” she spat weakly.
“Because you nearly died,” he corrected, tone dangerously calm. “There’s a difference.”
Before she could protest again, he pushed the doors open with his shoulder, revealing a room so vast it felt like its own world—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the moonlit sea, a king-sized bed draped in charcoal linens, a sitting area with a burning fireplace, and the faint scent of cedarwood and som
