BENITA CELESTINE

The scent of vanilla and old lace hung heavy in the air, a sweetness that only amplified the current tension. I lay still, my wrists secured to the carved posts of a magnificent four-poster bed with smooth silk scarves.

They were tied tightly enough to hurt and render escape impossible.

Across the room, standing by the door, was Goliath. He was dressed in a dark, slick shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbow.

"You look beautiful," he said, the words a low, cold ...