The door opened with the hush of deliberate grace.
Sierra Montgomery glided across the threshold as though the condo were a throne room and she its undisputed sovereign—chin lifted, shoulders regal, every step measured like a queen granting audience to a dangerous rival.
Yet the flicker in her eyes betrayed her: this was enemy territory, and she knew it.
Phei drank her in without mercy.
The gown was liquid midnight—black silk satin poured over her body by a master who understood worship.
It skimmed her collarbones, then plunged into a halter that crossed at the hollow of her throat in a perfect, cruel X, guiding the gaze downward to a panel of sheer obsidian lace so fine it was little more than suggestion.
Beneath it, the flawless curves of her breasts rose and fell with each controlled breath, the delicate floral embroidery doing nothing to conceal the pale rose of her skin or the faint, proud peaks beneath.
