The early morning air at the D'Angelo estate was crisp, but it didn't seem to bother Sterling.
In the private training courtyard, he had stripped off his shirt, tossing it onto a stone bench. Sweat traced slow lines down his back, catching along the sharp ridges of muscle, as he moved through another set of push-ups.
Upstairs, behind the safety of glass and distance, Anya watched.
She stood partially hidden by the frame, her eyes locked on Sterling. She traced the line of his spine, the way his muscles bunched and shifted under his tan skin. She had seen handsome men before, but Sterling was different.
It wasn't just his body.
It was the way everything about him felt… restrained. Controlled. Dangerous.
His hair was a deep, dark brown—almost black when the light didn't catch it—slightly damp at the edges from sweat. And his eyes…
Anya swallowed.
