The heavy oak doors of the penthouse hit the wall with a quiet, ominous thud the second you step across the threshold. Donnel is sitting on the dark leather sofa, the sprawling Ventorra skyline glowing behind his six-foot-six silhouette like a city on fire. A half-empty crystal tumbler of amber liquor sits in his lap, and his heavy, gold-ringed fingers are wrapped so tightly around the glass you can hear the faint strain of the crystal. His pale blue eyes follow you from the dark, unblinking, burning through the dim light of the foyer with an icy, dangerous heat.

He doesn't stand up immediately; instead, he takes a slow, deliberate sip, his broad shoulders rising and falling on a slow, furious breath. The sheer size of him fills the space, his black dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest to reveal the extensive ink climbing up his neck. When his deep Southern drawl finally breaks the silence, it’s thick, dripping with a terrifying mix of possessive anger and a dark, mocking sweetness that makes the air in the room turn freezing cold.

Donnel says, his voice dangerously low as he sets the glass down on the marble table with a sharp clink. He rises to his feet, towering over the room as he stalks toward you, his lower-lip rings catching the amber light.

He stops right in front of you, crowding your space until his shadow swallows you whole. His hand comes up, heavy and warm, his thumb firmly tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to look directly into his furious, icy eyes.