POV: Isolde Sterling
My apartment in Kensington was usually my sanctuary. Tonight, it felt like a cage.
I paced the living room, still in my engagement dress, clutching a glass of cold water. My mind was a chaotic storm.
Julian.
He was alive. And god, he was different. The Julian of five years ago was a scholar, a gentle man who quoted poetry and played the cello. This man? This man was war personified.
The way he moved-fluid, lethal. The way he looked at me-like he wanted to devour me whole. I should be terrified. I should be calling the police or Harrison.
Instead, I was... wet.
The realization made me flush with shame. I was engaged to his brother. But the memory of Julian's rough lips on my knuckles, the sheer power radiating off him, woke something primal in me. My body ached with a sudden, sharp longing.
I needed to get out of this dress.
I walked into my bedroom and reached back to undo the clasp. It was jammed. My hands were shaking too much.
"Damn it," I hissed, struggling with the zipper.
"Allow me."
I spun around, a scream dying in my throat.
Julian was sitting in my velvet armchair, in the dark corner of my bedroom. He had bypassed my security system-state-of-the-art biometrics-as if it were a child's toy.
He had ditched the tie. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, exposing the hollow of his throat and a hint of a dark tattoo peeking out from his collarbone. He held a cigarette, unlit, rolling it between his long fingers.
"How did you get in?" I demanded, trying to sound imperious, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"I have my ways," he said smoothly. He stood up. The room suddenly felt very small.
He walked toward me, slow and deliberate. He stopped inches away, his heat enveloping me. He smelled of rain, whiskey, and danger.
"Turn around, Isolde," he commanded. It wasn't a request.
My body obeyed before my mind could protest. I turned my back to him, exposing my vulnerable spine to the man who had just risen from the dead.
I felt his fingers brush against my bare skin. They were calloused, rough. The contrast against the smooth silk and my soft skin was maddening. I gasped, my head falling forward.
"You're tense," he murmured, his breath hot against the nape of my neck.
"You broke into my house, Julian."
"I came to collect what's mine."
He found the jammed zipper. But he didn't pull it down immediately. He traced the line of my spine with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to make my knees weak.
"Harrison doesn't know how to touch you," Julian whispered, his voice dark and velvety. "He touches you like you're porcelain. Breakable."
He gripped my hips with both hands, pulling me back against his hard chest. I could feel the wall of muscle behind me, solid and unyielding.
"I know you're not glass, Isolde," he growled against my ear, sending shivers down my legs. "You're steel wrapped in silk. And I'm the only one strong enough to bend you."
Zip.
The sound was loud in the quiet room. The dress loosened, sliding off my shoulders, pooling at my waist, held up only by the friction of my hips.
I was exposed. Vulnerable. And I had never felt more alive.
"Why are you here, Julian?" I whispered, trembling.
He spun me around, his eyes locking onto mine. The blue fire in them was roaring now.
"To start a war," he said. "And to ask you a question."
"What question?"
"When I burn Harrison's world to ash..." his hand slid up my bare arm to cup my neck, his thumb grazing my pulse. "Will you be standing by him? Or will you be ruling beside me?"
