Raven stood outside the heavy oak doors of Vincent De Luca's private quarters, her heart still racing from the tunnel kill. Blood flecked her black tactical gear — tiny dark stars against the matte fabric. The graze on her left shoulder burned hot where the bullet had torn a shallow furrow through muscle and skin hours earlier. A deep ache lingered between her thighs, a filthy reminder of what he had done to her last night. She had washed her hands in the basin down the hall, but the metallic scent clung to her skin like a confession.
She shouldn't go in. Every instinct drilled into her since childhood screamed that entering the lion's den willingly was suicide. Yet here she was, fingers brushing the cold brass handle. The motion tugged the raw graze and fresh heat flared down her arm.
The door opened before she could knock.
