The Blackwood estate had never felt more like a gilded prison.
Rain lashed the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, turning the Puget Sound into a roiling cauldron of gray fury far below the cliffs. Thunder rumbled like distant judgment, shaking the crystal decanters on the sideboard. Inside, the air was thick with the musk of s*x, expensive sandalwood cologne, and the faint metallic tang of betrayal.
Damien Blackwood — the man who had built an empire on ice-cold ruthlessness and whispered threats — stood at the window, shirt unbuttoned, silver threading his black hair like cracks in marble. At forty-five, he was still devastating: broad shoulders carved from years of disciplined power, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, and those bourbon-dark eyes that could strip a soul bare o
