Tyrant Luciano Zarkov.
The heavy oak door of the master suite closed behind me with a deliberate, solid click that cut through the quiet like a promise.
The sound lingered for a moment in the vast, shadowed room before dissolving into the low, steady crackle of the fireplace. Outside, the night air slipped through the tall balcony doors, stirring the heavy silk curtains so they whispered against the marble floor. Inside, the fire painted everything in warm, liquid gold — flickering across dark wood paneling, across the massive four-poster bed, and across the woman who had made herself at home in the center of my world.
Katherine was lying across the middle of the bed when I walked back into the room.
One leg hung lazily over the edge, her bare foot dangling just above the thick Persia
