I almost spit a mouthful of oatmeal back into the bowl when the coldest, iciest blue eyes I’ve ever seen fill my line of vision, their piercing quality effortlessly standing out against the backdrop of the enormous room, making even the most impressive aspects of the custom dining area pale in comparison. One minute I’m by myself and the next I’m not, the sight of his towering, imposing form too abrupt for words, his presence beyond startling, literally making my heart stop.

Frost walks into the dining room, the casual shirt and slacks he had on the last time I saw him replaced by a dark tracksuit and running shoes. But even more noticeable is the big black shoulder bag slung across his broad chest.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise as though they’re reaching for the heavens—and I don’t blame them. Their owner is right there with them, silently praying for God to come down and save her from the devil who has finally shown himself. But I can’t. Because, right now, it seems Roni Gallo is, quite literally, incapable of doing pretty much anything.

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