Raven surfaced slowly from a restless sleep in a bed that wasn't hers.
The sheets were too soft, too expensive. The room was larger than the one she'd been given before—still controlled, still elegant, but unmistakably different. Morning light filtered through heavy curtains that didn't open fully. A single black dress hung on the wardrobe door. Next to it, a smaller box containing simple but clearly expensive clothing.
She sat up slowly. Her ribs still ached from the rifle. Her split lip throbbed. And between her legs—a deep, raw soreness that made her hiss through her teeth. The memory of Vincent's hands, his mouth, the brutal fullness of him inside her flashed hot behind her eyes before she crushed it down.
The ring on her left hand caught the light—simple, clean, undeniable.
Raven De Luca.
The name sat heavy in her chest.
