Mason stood before the window, his reflection faint in the glass as the city lights blinked back at him like indifferent stars.

His shirt hung halfway off his shoulder, belt forgotten on the floor, his chest still heaving lightly—not from pleasure, but from the madness that had just emptied itself into the wrong woman.

Behind him is Priscilia, pulling her blouse over her shoulders, adjusting it in silence. She looked satisfied, but only in the way someone would after surviving a storm, not ...