The master suite of the Archducal palace was steeped in the heavy scent of sex and candle smoke. The great bed—once Bane's symbol of solitary power—was now a battlefield of tangled limbs and soaked sheets. Aiden lay at the center, white hair fanned across the pillows like frost on black marble, golden eyes half-lidded but sharp with predatory satisfaction.
Catherine and Sabrina were still awake, bodies pressed tight against him on either side. Luna and Flora had finally collapsed into exhausted sleep hours ago, curled together on the bearskin rug by the dying fire, their soft breathing the only gentle sound in the room.
But Catherine and Sabrina were not finished. They never were when Aiden's mood turned to this particular hunger.
Catherine's hand slid lazily down his abdomen, fingers tracing the ridges of muscle until they wrapped around his cock—still half-hard, slick with the mingled evidence of the night. She stroked him slowly, deliberately, blue eyes locked on his face.
