"Wine or whiskey?" Gosto’s voice cut through the anxiety crushing my chest, offering me a brief lifeline.

“Wine,” I murmured, arms crossing over my waist as I lowered myself onto the plush sofa in the salon.

He moved with practiced ease, pulling the cork from an aged bottle and pouring a glass of deep red wine. As he handed it to me, he filled his own tumbler with amber whiskey and settled beside me. “How’s your hand?” he asked, eyeing the faint scar where the cut was nearly ...