The heavy iron door of the cell groaned open, spilling harsh, blinding yellow light into the pitch-black room.

Sienna instinctively raised a hand to shield her eyes, her back screaming in protest at the sudden movement. Two massive silhouettes stood in the doorway, their tactical gear i

Sienna’s mind raced, the gears turning with desperate, frantic speed. The air in Ronan Thorne’s office had grown suffocatingly thin. His grip on her shoulder was a vice of iron and heat, bruising her skin through the thin fabric of her borrowed clothes. His eyes—usually twin chips of impe

The dress was a weapon in its own right.

It was a floor-length gown of midnight blue silk, cut dangerously low in the back and featuring a slit that rode high up her thigh. It clung to her curves like a second skin, elegant but predatory. As Sienna stared at her reflection in the crack