The Sinclair Penthouse usually smelled of expensive things: Italian leather, cedarwood, aged scotch, and the crisp, ozone scent of filtered air.
This morning, however, it smelled like a swamp that had caught fire.
Damien woke up not to the sound of his alarm, but to a pungent, earthy stench that assaulted his sinuses even through the closed door of the Master Suite. He sat up, groggy and shirtless, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun in the bedside drawer.
'Is it a gas leak? A chemical attack?'
He threw off the sheets and stalked out of the bedroom, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. He followed the smell—a mix of burnt roots, sulfur, and something that smelled suspiciously like wet dog—straight to the kitchen.
The sight that greeted him was... domestic. Terrifyingly so.
