Rosalind had barely crossed the threshold of Dorian's chambers once before — and yet, the place felt like it knew her far better than she ever intended.
She was immediately struck by the lingering scent of sandalwood — a gentle, fresh fragrance tinged with a faint chill, the kind that one could easily lose themselves in.
Just like the man himself — cold, yet strangely, irresistibly magnetic.
"If you keep standing there like that… I might assume your offer to share a drink comes with ulterior motives, Rosi."
His voice, a low murmur by her ear, sent a shiver down her spine — like a breath of wind brushing the nape of her neck.
Rosalind turned sharply, only to collide into a firm chest, losing her balance and falling straight into the figure before her.
By the time she gathered her bearings, her gaze had met the hard plane of his chest — muscular and close, far too close.
She instinctively pushed against him, but his arms remained wrapped around her, unyielding.
