The living room felt different when they returned to it. The manic, violent energy of the assassination attempt had burned off, leaving a heavy, exhausted calm in its wake.
Ryan sat in the center of the velvet sectional.
He had changed into a pair of dry sweatpants, his chest bare, the dark, fading bruises on his ribs fully exposed to the dim light.
He rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the rain lashing against the glass.
Diana walked into the room. The oversized cashmere sweater swallowed her frame, the sleeves pushed up past her wrists.
Her wet hair was combed back, her face entirely scrubbed of makeup. She looked ten years younger, the severe, aristocratic lines of the venture capitalist completely erased.
She didn't take an armchair. She walked straight to the couch and sat down closely beside Ryan, her thigh pressing firmly against his.
A moment later, Zara walked in from the kitchen, carrying two steaming ceramic mugs.
