Christian Sive was not a broken man. He was a shattered one who had learned to arrange his pieces into the shape of control. His penthouse was a reliquary of relics from lovers past — a silk rope, a shattered glass, a letter signed Your broken vessel .
Shade 1: Watching her sleep without permission. Shade 13: Lying about my past to protect my future. Shade 27: Enjoying her tears more than her laughter. Shade 50: Believing I could be both her priest and her poison.
Each Thursday, she would enter a room painted the color of pomegranates, walls lined with mirrors showing every angle of her wanting. There, he would not touch her. He would only watch — and pray.
"For God?" she whispered.
