Christian’s pulse hammered—not from fear, but recognition. He knew that temperature. He knew that hunger lurking behind Edward’s polite veneer. It was the same void he fed with contracts, with whips, with the red room’s sacred geometry.

Christian leaned back, steepling his fingers. “And what do you want, Miss Swan? You smell like his obsession. But you look at me like you’re starving.”

The Cullen mansion materialized through the cedars like a marble mausoleum—all cold columns and black windows. As Christian strode up the gravel drive, the front door opened before he could knock.

“Bella, don’t,” Edward murmured, so low Christian almost missed it.