Logan Mason had never held a blade like that before—not in the way Aurora Sage wanted him to.
He'd used props, staged knives for action roles, rubber ones for choreographed scenes that took ten takes and ended with applause. But this? This blade was different. It was real, heavy with quiet violence, and it demanded more than performance. It demanded instinct. Intention.
"You're holding it wrong," Aurora said the next morning, standing barefoot on the thick carpet of their hotel suite, her hair twisted into a no-nonsense braid, black tank top and leggings making her look like a soldier, not a lover.
Logan adjusted his grip.
She sighed and crossed the room.
Without warning, she grabbed his wrist and twisted it, fast and sharp.
"See?" she said. "If I were Kieran, you'd already be bleeding."
He didn't flinch.
But his jaw clenched.
"Maybe show me before disarming me."
Aurora lifted her brow. "You said you wanted this."
"I do."
"Then stop complaining."
