Penthouse

The jet landed in Florence under the warm kiss of the Mediterranean evening sun. From the window, Winter caught sight of red-tiled roofs, old churches, and distant vineyards. It was almost surreal.

"Come on," Darren said, his voice calm but commanding as he led her down the private steps of the jet.

A black town car was already waiting at the tarmac.

Winter stepped inside and sank into the leather seat beside him. Her heart hadn't stopped thudding since takeoff, and now they were on a whole new continent. Italy. A place she'd only read about. A place she never thought she'd ever visit—certainly not with a man like Darren Riggs.

The drive was a blur of marble buildings, winding roads, and Darren's silent presence beside her. When they finally pulled up to the hotel, Winter's lips parted slightly.

The building towered like something from an old Florentine fairytale. Balconies rimmed with golden railings, tall arches of white stone, and windows so clean they glittered like diamonds under the evening, fading sun. She blinked twice, trying not to gawk, but it was hard.

"Is this…?" she began.

"Yes," Darren said smoothly, already stepping out and handing the valet his keys. "Come."

She followed him through tall revolving doors and into a marble lobby that smelled like vanilla and money. Staff members bowed slightly as they passed. A woman in black heels and red lipstick escorted them to a private elevator without a word.

"Penthouse," Darren told her casually as the elevator doors closed.

Winter blinked. "You got the whole penthouse floor?"

"Yes."

She stared straight ahead, trying to keep her breathing calm. We're sharing a penthouse?

The elevator dinged and opened into a vast space that could pass for an entire apartment complex. The floors were polished wood, the ceilings high and molded. Cream-colored couches, gold-accented walls, a fireplace that flickered to life as they stepped in—it all screamed luxury.

And then her nerves spiked.

Because it hit her: they were in a hotel. Together. Alone.

She cleared her throat, shifting her weight. "Is this... where we're staying?"

Darren gave her a side glance, clearly catching the unease in her voice. "Yes. Unless you'd prefer the couch downstairs."

She gave him a weak smile. "I'll survive."

He strode toward the sleek, vintage-style telephone on the console table and dialed the front desk. His Italian rolled off his tongue, fluent and sharp.

"Buongiorno. Sì. I need women's business attire. Work-appropriate. Size…" He glanced at her. "Six?"

She nodded slowly.

"Have it brought up to the penthouse in ten minutes." Pause. "No. No questions. Thank you."

He hung up and turned to her. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll take a quick shower."

Then he disappeared behind a white door that hissed shut like something out of a luxury spaceship.

Winter exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Just breathe.

She let her feet guide her across the floor as she took in her surroundings. Every corner whispered wealth. There was a glass bar stocked with wine and rare liquor, an antique record player near the bookshelf, and a cream loveseat with embroidered cushions that probably cost more than her salary for a year.

Then she spotted it. His phone.

It sat on the couch—sleek, matte black, Z-flip. She wouldn't have looked at it if it hadn't vibrated. Just once.

Curiosity gnawed at her.

She moved to it slowly, hesitantly.

The screen still glowed.

"I've spoken to Beta Norman. He said we are set."

Winter stared at the message, her fingers curling instinctively.

Beta?

Her brows furrowed. No one used that term in regular life unless…

Her stomach dropped.

He knows.

He knew about the werewolf world. He was part of it.

That one word shattered her entire assumption about Darren Riggs.

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached to put the phone back down—but a voice behind her froze her in place.

"What are you doing?"

Her spine stiffened.

She turned slowly to find Darren standing just outside the bathroom door.

But his eyes—those deep, piercing blue eyes—were narrowed, cold.

She swallowed. "I-I wasn't snooping. Your phone buzzed. I looked. Instinct, I guess."

He walked toward her slowly, predatorily.

"You looked at my phone out of instinct?"

"It vibrated," she said softly, eyes never leaving his. "I'm sorry."

He reached her now, towering, the scent of cedar and warm spice wafting from his damp skin.

"And what did you see?"