Chapter 7

• Joaquin’s POV
• The heavy door of the east wing suite didn't make a sound as I turned the brass handle. I stepped into the room, the darkness swallowing my silhouette as I closed the door behind me with practiced, lethal silence. The only sound in the vast suite was the frantic, rhythmic tapping of the midnight rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and the soft, even breathing of the girl sleeping in the center of the king-sized bed.
• I discarded my suit jacket on a nearby armchair, unbuttoned the top two buttons of my dress shirt, and slowly walked across the white marble floor. My footsteps were entirely silent—a habit born from years of operating in places the light of the law refused to touch. I stopped at the edge of the bed, my eyes adjusting to the dim amber glow filtering in from the estate's courtyard lamps. Roxanne was curled on her side, her knees pulled slightly toward her chest, buried beneath the heavy dark-blue silk duvet. Her long, dark hair was scattered across the pillows like a silken web. The black lace mask was gone, left on the nightstand, leaving her face entirely bare.