The last thing Stella Griffith remembered was drinking a glass of wine.

Born into the chaos of the apocalypse and having clawed her way through eighteen years of it, she had only ever heard of this stuff in old survivors’ stories, or seen it in ancient films.

The liquor slid down her throat, rich and mellow. She only caught a faint trace of sweetness before her mind started drifting, light and unsteady.

When she opened her eyes again, the first thing she saw was that dangerously intimate glow.

Not the harsh white or bloody red light of the wasteland, but something warm, fluid, almost unreal—like melted amber spilling down from the crystal chandelier overhead.

The air carried a scent too.

Not blood. Not rot.

It was a cold, restrained sandalwood fragrance, clean and distant, the kind that made people think twice before getting close.

Someone was here.

Her nerves instantly tightened. Years of surviving the end of the world snapped her awake by sheer reflex.

But her body refused to cooperate. It felt boneless, ridiculously weak, as if all her strength had been drained out. Worse, an unfamiliar heat was crawling through her, scorching her from the inside out.

She turned her head.

On the other side of the bed, a man was leaning against the headboard.

He was wearing a bathrobe, the collar hanging loose enough to reveal a stretch of lean collarbone and a smooth, toned chest.

His hair was still damp. Tiny droplets slid from the ends, trailing down the side of his neck, gliding over the sharp rise of his Adam’s apple before disappearing into the pale edge of his robe.

Stella’s gaze paused there for one second.

The man was looking at her too. His profile was sharp and cold, like it had been cut from stone. High brow bone, thin lips pressed together, the whole vibe screaming keep out.

That kind of elegance, that kind of distance—it was baked into his bones, matching this absurdly luxurious hotel room a little too well.

But she had zero brain space to analyze any of that right now.

She was just hot.

That heat burned through her until her mouth went dry. Her thoughts had turned into mush, and only instinct was still online.

That Adam’s apple... nice.

Long fingers.

A sharp shoulder-and-neck line, sexy in that clean, dangerous way.

After surviving eighteen years in the apocalypse and seeing the ugliest side of human nature way too many times, Stella Griffith had developed a brutally simple standard for judging people:

If they could fight, good.

If they could stay alive, even better.

And if all else failed, enjoy the moment.

She closed her eyes and edged half an inch closer to him.

Then another half inch.

The next second, an arm suddenly came around her, firm and overbearing, circling her waist and dragging her whole body straight into a chest that carried a cool, distant scent.

She tipped her face up.

The man lowered his head.

His eyes were right there, absurdly close—black, deep, like a frozen pool with no visible bottom.

At that moment, that sheet of ice reflected her face.

It also reflected a trace of dark fire, something the drug had coaxed awake.

He watched her for a few seconds, like he was confirming something.

Then the ice cracked, and the fire spread.

Stella’s last clear thought was: Yeah... up close, his Adam’s apple looks even better.

What happened after that, she couldn’t really remember.

Only scattered, broken bits of sensation remained—the aloof, cool sandalwood scent on the man’s body, the scorching heat of his skin, the heavy and steady thump of his heartbeat, and one moment when she heard her own voice, shattered beyond recognition.

**

Stella Griffith was woken by sunlight.

The curtains hadn’t been fully drawn, and a strip of golden light landed right across her eyelids.

She frowned and opened her eyes, staring at the huge crystal chandelier above her for three full seconds before her memory slowly came back.

Wine.

A man.

His Adam’s apple.

And then...

She shifted a little, and every inch of her body ached like she’d gone eight hundred rounds with zombies.

Still, this body had obviously been cleaned up. Fresh, dry, comfortable. None of that sticky, gross after-feeling.

Someone was beside her.

She didn’t open her eyes. Her breathing stayed steady too, even and calm, as she kept playing asleep.

"If you’re awake, open your eyes."

His voice was low, carrying that lazy, husky edge of someone who’d just woken up, but the chill in it was still there.

Stella Griffith didn’t move.

The man seemed to let out a quiet little laugh, brief and faint, with no real warmth in it. "Pretending to sleep?"