The violent, jagged rhythm of Diana's breathing slowly began to decelerate, evening out into long, shuddering exhales against Ryan's stomach.
The penthouse living room remained suffocatingly quiet, insulated from the freezing rain lashing the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The only sounds were the heavy, ambient hum of the HVAC system and the faint, rhythmic ticking of the antique clock in the hallway.
Ryan didn't move. He kept his hand firmly on the back of Diana's head, anchoring her to the solid, unyielding mass of his chest.
He felt the microscopic tremors wrecking her muscles, the biological aftermath of surviving near death.
Zara stood a few feet away, her bare feet silent against the Persian rug. She looked at the ruined emerald-green evening gown.
The heavy silk was torn, dusted with pulverized safety glass that glittered maliciously in the dim light. The dark, oxidized stain of the driver's blood painted a chaotic smear across Diana's ribs.
