Harper froze.

She was crouched low, her uniform still at her waist, her bare back exposed, her bruises visible, blood streaking the floor beside her.

For one long moment, there was only silence.

Then a voice, deep and smooth and dangerous, cut through the room like a blade.

“Who the hell are you?”

Harper looked up.

And her world stopped.

Gabriel Ashford stood in the doorway.

He was massive, at least six-three, broad-shouldered in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up over tattooed forearms. Serpents coiled around his arms. Roses with thorns. Skulls. Latin inscriptions she could not read from where she knelt.
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