Page 117 of Shattered By Grace

Chapter Fifty-Two

The scent hit her before she even unlocked the door. Rich, warm, and utterly mouthwatering.

Unlocking the door, she slowly pushed it open, stepping inside. “What the fu—” The words died on her lips.

Roses. Everywhere.

Vases overflowed with them, petals scattered like something out of a dream. The dining table was set with candles flickering against soft linen, casting shadows that danced along the walls.

But none of that held her attention.

No.

Her focus locked on him.

Tristan was draped against the couch’s armrest, long legs crossed at the ankles, the picture of effortless control. His low-slung jeans rode dangerously on his hips, exposing every carved muscle and the deep V-cut so pronounced it should’ve been illegal.

Bare-chested, the candlelight cast golden shadows over the defined ridges of his torso, every dip and plane meant to ruin her.

He swirled two glasses of red wine, grip lazy, like he had all the time in the world. His dark hair was a tousled mess, like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times, and when his gaze met hers, smoldering and lethal, her stomach flipped.

Fuck me.

Her pulse tripped over itself as she finally found her voice. “What’s all this?”

Tristan pushed off the couch, moving toward her with that slow, measured stride that made it impossible to breathe properly. “Welcome home, love.”

He handed her a glass of wine, his fingers brushing against hers, just enough to make her stomach tighten. “Here’s to us.” His voice was smooth, dark, and when he tilted his glass to hers, she barely had the sense to respond.

“Cheers.”

She took a sip, but his eyes never left hers. Watching. Consuming.

“So sweet.”

He dragged out each syllable, voice dipping lower, rougher. It was like a spark catching at the deepest part of her, igniting something hot, needy, impossible to ignore

“We have about thirty minutes before dinner is ready.” His tone was casual, but the way he stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, was anything but. “I’ve got everything ready for a long, relaxing shower.”

Her breath hitched. “What am I missing?”

His dark gaze flickered over her, assessing, waiting.

Victoria swallowed, her grip tightening around the glass.

“When you finally texted me back, I had this feeling… that you weren’t having the best day.”

Tristan grabbed her hand, his grip firm but unhurried, leading her through the apartment. Every step sent a fresh wave of roses into the air, the scent intoxicating.

When they stepped into the bedroom, her breath caught.

More flowers. Vases upon vases, petals scattered like something out of a dream.

But he didn’t stop.

He led her straight into the bathroom, warm, candlelit, the air hazy with steam. On the counter, a neatly stacked set of clothes waited, every detail carefully thought out.

Tristan turned to her then, gaze wicked. “ Strip.”

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