Morning light cut through the curtains, pulling Elena from another restless night. She blinked against the brightness, her body heavy with exhaustion. The dream was already dissolving at the edges, leaving only a feeling behind.

A heat that had nowhere to go.

She sat up. The clock on the nightstand read 7:03.

The dream lingered longer than most. Not the details—those were already fading—but the feeling of it. The warmth of a hand at her waist. A voice too close to her ear.

She pushed the thought away and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The blouse she'd worn the day before hung over the chair, wrinkled but clean enough. She grabbed it, stepped into the skirt, and caught herself in the mirror.

Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hair was tangled from sleep. She looked exhausted, more worn down than she felt willing to admit.

She splashed water on her face in the bathroom, ran her fingers through her hair until it was presentable, and tucked the blouse into the skirt. Functional. Professional. Something she could still control.

She opened her door and stepped into the hallway—and nearly walked straight into Presley.

"Miss Rossi."

His voice was calm, but there was something in the set of his shoulders—a readiness she hadn't seen before.

"Good morning," she said, stepping back. "I was just heading to the study."

"Mr. Thorn is waiting for you out front."

She blinked. "Out front?"

"Yes, Miss. He asked me to collect you."

The study had been their routine. Every morning, the same desk, the same chair, the same stack of contracts and reports. A rhythm she'd started to learn. This—whatever this was—broke it.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Not that I'm aware of, miss." Presley's face gave nothing away. "He's expecting you."

She swallowed. Nodded. "Okay."

He turned and led the way down the hall, his footsteps steady against the hardwood. Elena followed, her heart picking up a rhythm she didn't invite. The front door loomed ahead, flanked by tall windows that let in the pale morning light.

Presley pulled the door open.

"After you, miss."

She stepped through, the cool air hitting her face, and saw him.

Liam Thorn stood at the edge of the circular driveway, his back to her, hands in the pockets of a blue suit. The black sedan was pulling up slowly, tires crunching gravel, a driver she didn't recognize behind the wheel. One of Victor's men, probably—young, short black hair, eyes attentive to things around him.

Thorn turned as the car came to a stop.

“Good morning, Miss Rossi.”

His voice carried across the hall, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Elena walked down the steps, her flats tapping against the stone. “Hello, Mr. Thorn. Where are we going?”

“Into town.”

He reached for the rear door and pulled it open, holding it as he waited.

She hesitated. A heartbeat. Two.

Then she walked past him and slid into the back seat. The leather was cool against her thighs. She watched him close the door, the solid click sounding strangely final, before he walked around to the other side.

The driver sat rigidly behind the wheel, both hands fixed at ten and two, his eyes occasionally flicking toward the rearview mirror. The small earpiece was tucked behind his right ear.

Liam got in beside her. The door clicked shut.

The car pulled away, the manor shrinking in the side mirror as Elena stared out the window at the trees blurring past. Silence stretched between them. She could feel him beside her, perfectly still. His leg was only inches from hers.

She kept her hands folded in her lap.

“So,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “What's in town?”

Liam turned his head toward her. His blue eyes settled on her for a moment, and Elena suddenly became aware of the collar against her throat. She curled her fingers into her palms to keep from fidgeting with it.

“Your wardrobe.”

She blinked. “My—”

“It’s come to my attention that you need other attire options.”

Something cold settled in her stomach. She thought of the lingerie Mrs. Crane had given her—the silk nightgowns. The dresses hanging untouched in her closet.

“I have clothes, Mr. Thorn. Plenty of them. You've already—”

“Mostly work clothes.” His tone remained calm. “The contract requires me to provide what you need.”

Heat rose to her cheeks. “My wardrobe is fine. I have plenty of clothes at my apartment.”

“Your apartment has been cleared out. Everything is in storage.”

She turned toward him. “You already moved them?”

“Yes.”

The matter-of-fact answer caught her off guard. She stared at him for a moment before shaking her head. “Well, I don't need you to pick out my clothes.”

Liam glanced at her, the edge of something almost amused touching his expression.

“I'm not a doll, Mr. Thorn. I spent years building a professional wardrobe. You can't just—”

“I can.” His tone never changed. “And I am. Your attire is part of the arrangement, Miss Rossi. I intend to see that it's handled properly.”

She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that her blouses fit fine, her skirts were appropriate, and her shoes were comfortable. That she wasn't his to dress. That this was one more thing he was taking from her—one more piece of her life being decided for her. But the words sat in her throat, sharp and useless, because he was right. She'd signed it. She'd read every clause. And he was standing squarely within one of them, calm and certain.

She let out a breath. “Fine.”

“Good.”

Elena frowned. “That's it?”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don't know. A lecture. Another clause from the contract.”

His mouth twitched. “You seem disappointed.”

“I'd actually prefer the lecture.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

She studied him for a moment. “You planned all this before you even asked me.”

“Yes.”

“The clothes?”

“Yes.”

“The shopping?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “You really don't leave much to chance, do you?”

“Never.” There was something about the simplicity of the answer that made her pause.

She turned back toward the window. “Believe me, I've noticed.”

The car slowed as they approached the building, the tires rolling quietly over the smooth pavement. Elena looked through the glass and caught her first glimpse of it—a facade of dark marble, polished to a mirror finish, with brass lettering set into the stone above a door of smoked glass and gold handles. VALERIUS, the letters read, in a font so simple it felt expensive.

Thorn didn't wait for the driver. He reached across her—his arm brushing her shoulder, his cologne hitting her lungs in a quiet shock—and opened her door himself. The cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of pavement and something floral from a planter beside the entrance.

He held the door. Waited.

She looked up at him. His face was still that unreadable mask, but his hand was steady on the chrome handle, and he was waiting for her. Not commanding. Not telling her to get out. Just holding the door.

Elena swung her legs out, the leather sighing as she stood, and his hand was there—just for a second—at the small of her back. A light touch. A guidance. Gone before she could register the heat of it through her blouse.

"After you, Miss Rossi."

She walked toward the smoked glass door, Liam following one step behind. She could feel his presence at her back, close enough to make her shoulders tense despite herself.

A woman in a tailored black suit opened the door before they reached it.

“Mr. Thorn.”

Liam gave her a brief nod and motioned for Elena to go ahead.

She stepped inside, and the scale of the place stopped her for half a second.

Marble floors stretched beneath her feet, polished to a mirror sheen. Racks of clothing were spaced so far apart they felt more like exhibits in a gallery, and the ceiling rose two stories above them, crowned by a crystal chandelier that caught the light and scattered it across the walls. The air smelled of cedar and something floral—jasmine, maybe. Even the temperature seemed deliberate, cool without being cold, as though the entire room had been designed around the clothes rather than the people wearing them.

Elena stopped three steps inside, her flats silent against the marble, and took in the room. She'd been to high-end boutiques before, had courted gallery clients in spaces that cost more per square foot than her old apartment. But this was different. This was a world she'd only ever glimpsed from the other side of the glass.

Behind her, Liam's footsteps stopped too. She felt him wait.

"Alright?" he asked.

She turned. His face was that same stone, but his eyes moved across the space with the ease of ownership. Like he'd been here a hundred times. Like he owned half the inventory already.

"It's a lot," she said.

“You'll get used to it.” He gestured toward the racks with a slight tilt of his chin. “Start looking. Pick out what you think you'll need.”

She blinked. “You're not going to pick for me?”

Something in his expression softened. “Did you want me to?”

The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth, then stopped. A moment ago, she'd been ready to argue with him about choosing her clothes. Now that he'd left the choice to her, she wasn't sure what she wanted. She shook her head quickly—too quickly—and turned toward the nearest rack of blouses, hoping he hadn't noticed the heat rising along her neck.

The clothes were beautiful. That was the problem. Every fabric felt like water running through her fingers. Every cut was designed to catch the light and the eye. She pulled out a cream silk blouse, the buttons mother-of-pearl, and held it up. Professional. Elegant. Not a single thing she would have bought for herself on her best day.

She put it back.

Too expensive. Too much. She didn't belong in clothes like this.

She moved to the next rack. Black slacks, tailored to within an inch of their lives. A blazer in deep navy, the stitching invisible. A skirt that fell just above the knee, the fabric heavy and soft.

She picked up the skirt. Turned it over. Checked the tag.

The number made her stomach drop.

"Pick what fits," Liam said from somewhere behind her. She hadn't heard him move, but he was there, at her shoulder, his voice low enough that it didn't carry. "Don't look at the price."

"Easy for you to say."

"It's part of the contract, Miss Rossi. You're representing Thorn Holdings now. You need to look the part."

She set the skirt back on the rack and moved to another section, her fingers trailing over fabrics she couldn't afford to want. But he was right. She'd signed. That was the part she couldn't argue with. And if he wanted to dress her in silk and tailoring, she'd wear it.

She picked up a white blouse—crisp, structured, with a collar that would sit clean under a blazer. Then a pair of charcoal trousers. Then a navy pencil skirt that grazed her fingertips and felt like it had been made for her already.

She built a small pile in her arms. Three blouses. Two pairs of slacks. Two skirts. A blazer that fit across her shoulders like it had been waiting for her.

Liam watched. Said nothing. But she felt his gaze on her the whole time, steady and unhurried, like he was cataloging every choice she made.

She moved to the underwear section and stopped.

Lace and silk filled the racks in colors she'd never worn—deep burgundy, forest green, midnight blue. The pieces were clearly designed to be worn together, each more delicate and revealing than anything she would normally choose.

She reached for a bralette in soft ivory. The lace was delicate without being transparent. She turned it over in her hands, unsure whether she liked it or simply wasn't used to seeing herself in something like it.

She turned the tag over, checking the price one last time before returning it to the rack.

“That's a good choice.”

Her head snapped up. Liam stood two racks away, a garment bag draped over one arm. His attention was on the piece in her hand.

She looked down at it, then back at him. “You like it?”

“I think it suits you.”

Heat crept up her neck. She wasn't sure why that answer unsettled her more than if he'd criticized it.

“It’s just basic.”

“Not everything needs to be complicated.”

She studied him for a moment, trying to decide whether there was something more behind the words. His expression gave her nothing.

She set the bralette in her pile, then reached for another—simple black cotton, with a cut that sat higher on the hip. Not quite modest, but not quite daring either. A compromise she could live with.

She kept moving through the racks, adding bras, underwear, and a few camisoles as she went. Some were more revealing than she'd normally choose; others simple enough to feel familiar. She passed over anything that felt too bold and added the pieces that made her pause for only a moment before deciding yes.

The pile grew heavier in her arms. She shifted it against her hip and moved on, working her way through the different sections.

Then she found the pajamas.

They were in a section near the back, tucked between loungewear and robes, and they were—there was no other word for it—cute. One set was pale pink with tiny white stars scattered across the fabric. The top was soft flannel with a row of buttons down the front, and the bottoms were loose, gathered at the waist with a drawstring. Beside it was a soft gray set with a subtle pinstripe, and another in cream with little embroidered bees along the collar.

She reached out and touched the pink set. The flannel was impossibly soft. She could already imagine how it would feel against her skin.

“Find something?”

She turned. Liam had come up beside her, quieter than she would have expected in dress shoes against marble. Elena looked down at what she was holding against her chest and suddenly felt self-conscious.

“These,” she said. Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended. “They look comfortable.”

He looked at the pajamas, then at her. His expression remained unreadable.

“You want them?”

She hesitated. “Can I?”

His gaze held hers for a moment. “You don't need to ask me that.”

Elena wasn't sure what unsettled her more—the permission or the fact that he'd given it so easily.

“I'd like to get them,” she said. “If that's alright.”

Liam reached past her and picked up the cream set with the embroidered bees. He turned it over, examining the stitching before adding it to the pile.

“Get both,” he said. His hand moved to the gray set. “And this one.”

Relief flickered through her, warm and unexpected. “Thank you.”

He didn't acknowledge it. Instead, his hand moved farther along the rack and stopped on another set.

This one was different. Shorts instead of pants. Thin straps instead of buttons. The fabric was still soft, still comfortable, but there was less of it.

More skin.

Liam lifted the hanger and held it out.

“Get this one too.”

She looked at the set. Pale lavender. The shorts sat high on the hip, and the top dipped lower at the neckline than anything she'd normally wear.

“That's not—”

“Comfortable,” he finished.

She looked at him.

There was the faintest edge of amusement in his expression. “You said you wanted comfortable.”

She stared at the lavender set. Then at him. His face was unreadable, but his hand was steady, holding it out to her like an offering she couldn't refuse.

She took it.

"Good girl," he said quietly.

The words hit her low in the stomach, warm and unwelcome. She looked away, adding the lavender set to the pile, and tried to ignore the way her pulse had picked up.

"Miss Rossi?"

The voice came from behind her—bright, professional, female. Elena turned to find a young woman approaching, probably her own age, with blond hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and a face that belonged on a magazine cover. She wore a black dress that fit her like a second skin, and a diamond cuff on her wrist that caught the light as she moved.

"Mr. Thorn." The woman smiled, warm and familiar, and extended a hand to Liam. "It's good to see you again."

"Alexa." Liam took her hand, a brief, professional grip. "You're doing well?"

"Keeping busy. You know how it is." Her eyes slid to Elena, assessing but not unkind. "And this must be your guest. I heard you'd be bringing someone in today."

"Miss Rossi will be selecting a full wardrobe," Liam said. "I'd appreciate your assistance."

"Of course." Alexa's smile stayed fixed, professional. She gestured to the pile in Elena's arms. "Let me take those for you. I'll set up a fitting room while you keep looking."

Elena handed over the clothes, the weight leaving her arms in a slow release. "Thank you."

"Take your time." Alexa gathered the items with practiced ease. "I'll be right back."

She disappeared through a doorway at the back of the store, and Elena was left standing beside Liam in the sudden quiet, the racks of clothing stretching around them like a maze she was only beginning to navigate.

"You know her?" Elena asked.

"Alexa's family has run Valerius for three generations. I've been coming here since I was a boy."

She tried to picture him as a child, standing in this same space. But the image kept breaking apart before it could form properly, like her mind refused to place him anywhere but here, as he was.

"She's young," Elena said.

"Her father passed last year. She took over the business." Liam's voice was flat, but there was something beneath it—a recognition she hadn't expected. "She's been doing well."

Elena looked toward the doorway where Alexa had disappeared. "That must be hard. Losing a parent and taking over everything."

"It is."

She didn't say anything else. She didn't know what to say. But she filed it away—the fact that he'd noticed. That he'd said she was doing well. That somewhere beneath the stone exterior, Liam Thorn kept track of the people in his world.

Alexa reappeared a moment later, her hands empty. "The fitting room's ready whenever you are, Miss Rossi. Do you have everything you need?"

Elena looked around. The pile she'd built felt substantial, but she had no idea if it was enough. She glanced at Liam.

He nodded. "That's everything."

"Perfect." Alexa gestured toward the back of the store. "Right this way."

The fitting room was larger than Elena's bedroom at the manor. A three-way mirror dominated one wall, and a cushioned bench sat opposite it, upholstered in the same soft gray as the walls. The lighting was warm, flattering, and a small table held a carafe of water with lemon slices floating in it.

Alexa hung the clothes on a brass rack along the wall, arranging them by category. "Take your time. If you need anything, just press the button by the mirror."

"Thank you."

Alexa smiled and slipped out, pulling the door closed behind her. The latch clicked, and Elena was alone.

She stood in the center of the room for a long moment, her hands at her sides, and looked at the clothes waiting for her. The silk. The tailoring. The underwear she'd never have picked for herself but had chosen anyway.

She started with the blouse. White, crisp, the fabric cool against her arms as she pulled it on. It fit perfectly—the shoulders, the collar, the way it tucked into the trousers she tried next. She turned in front of the mirror, watching the way the fabric moved with her, and felt something shift in her chest. She looked good. Professional. Like someone who belonged in a room like this.

The skirt came next. The blazer. A pair of trousers that made her legs look longer, her waist narrower. She tried on the bralette in ivory and found it more comfortable than she'd expected—soft, supportive, the lace just visible at the collar of her blouse. She decided she liked it.

Item by item, she built herself back up in the mirror. Each piece fit like it had been made for her. Each choice felt like a small act of ownership in a life where she'd given so much away.

Then she reached the pajamas.

The pink set was first. She pulled on the pants—soft, loose, the drawstring cinching at her waist—and then the top, the buttons sliding into place easily. The flannel was impossibly soft against her skin. She turned to face the mirror and blinked.

She looked like herself. Not the version of herself that went to meetings or signed contracts or sat across from Liam Thorn at dinner. The version that stayed up late reading. The version that drank tea in bed and fell asleep with the light on. The version she'd almost forgotten she was allowed to be.

She touched the collar of the pajama top, the fabric warm under her fingers, and felt something loosen in her chest.

When she reached for the lavender set, she hesitated. The shorts were short, the top thin-strapped and low-cut. It was beautiful, but in a way that felt almost presumptuous—like it belonged to someone who didn't mind being seen.

Still, she slipped off the pink set and folded it carefully on the bench. Then she picked up the lavender.

The fabric was softer than the flannel—light, almost weightless against her skin. She pulled on the shorts, feeling them sit high on her hips, loose and easy in a way that didn’t feel restrictive. The top followed, falling into place with a soft drape that revealed more than she was used to: the line of her collarbone, the gentle curve beneath it.

She turned to the mirror and stopped.

It didn't look wrong. That was the first thought that came to her. It wasn't professional, careful, or guarded, but it looked right in a way she couldn't immediately argue with.

She turned slightly, watching the fabric move with her. The lavender caught the light, softening the contrast against her skin and making her eyes appear sharper. She studied her reflection for another moment, still trying to decide what unsettled her more—the outfit itself, or the fact that she liked what she saw.

Her fingers brushed the hem of the top, lingering there. Something in her chest loosened—quietly, almost reluctantly, like it had been holding its breath longer than she had.

She didn't take it off.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from the mirror.

“Miss Rossi?” Alexa's voice came through the wood. “How are we doing?”

Elena looked at herself one last time. The lavender fabric rested softly against her skin, the shorts riding higher than she was used to, the thin straps delicate against her shoulders. Her hand went instinctively to the hem of the top, tugging it down before she caught herself.

“I'm fine.”

The door cracked open. Alexa smiled as she stepped inside, her eyes moving over the outfit with practiced ease. Her smile widened.

“That suits you. Really.” She paused, searching for the right word. “You look—” Another glance. “Good. You look really good.”

Elena felt heat rise in her throat. "Thank you."

"I have a few more pieces Mr. Thorn asked me to set aside earlier this week. He specifically said to bring them in after you'd settled on the basics." Alexa gestured toward the hall. "Would you like to try them on?"

Elena's stomach tightened. She nodded.

Alexa disappeared and returned a moment later, carrying two garment bags. She hung them on the brass rack with professional care, unzipping the first to reveal a dress so dark it seemed to drink the light. Black fabric, a structured corset bodice with boning, and no straps, leaving her shoulders bare. The skirt flared from the waist, falling to mid-thigh in a soft, flowing line.

“This one's formal,” Alexa said. “Mr. Thorn picked this one out personally.”

Elena stepped out of the lavender set and into the dress. The corset hugged her ribs, cinching her waist, while the molded cups lifted her slightly, giving the fitted bodice a structured shape. She found the zipper at the back, pulled it up, and turned toward the mirror.

Her breath caught.

The dress was beautiful. The skirt swayed when she moved, the boning kept her posture straight, and her bare shoulders made her look—there was no other word for it—expensive. But her collarbone was exposed, and the neckline revealed more of her chest than she was comfortable showing.

Another knock. "How's the fit?"

"It fits," Elena said, her voice quieter than she intended.

Alexa stepped inside, her gaze moving from the hem to the neckline and back. She let out a soft, appreciative sound. "Perfect. Mr. Thorn must see this."

Before Elena could respond, Alexa crossed the room, opened the fitting room door, and gently but firmly guided Elena forward with a hand at her lower back. "Go on. Just a quick look."

Elena stepped into the main showroom, her flats silent on the marble. The chandelier light caught the black fabric, throwing the shape of her body into sharp relief. And there, in a leather lounge chair near the front window, Liam Thorn sat.

One leg crossed. His elbow resting on the armrest, his chin on his fist. He looked up.

His stone face cracked.

Not dramatically—just a shift in the set of his jaw, in the way his eyes moved over her. Slower. Focused and intent, his eyes not leaving her as if he were seeing something he hadn't expected to find. His gaze trailed from her bare shoulders to the curve of her breasts, down the cinched waist, along the skirt, and back up. His lips parted, just slightly.

Elena's skin burned under the weight of that look. She took a half-step back, her hand reaching for the doorframe behind her. "I should—"

"Don't." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "Come here."

She shook her head, her heart hammering. "No."

He rose from the chair. Slow. Deliberate. His voice dropped, and the words landed like stones. "Elena. I command you. Come stand in front of me."

The contract. His voice. The word command.

Her throat tightened. "Yes, sir."

She walked to him on legs that didn't feel like her own. Stopped three feet away. Her hands hung at her sides, fingers curling into her palms.

"Turn around."

She did. Quickly, wanting this to be over quickly. The skirt swirled around her knees. She heard him exhale.

"Slowly," he said. "Again."

She turned again, her face burning, and when she faced him, his eyes were still on her, dark and unguarded. The stone was gone. In its place was something rawer. Something that made her stomach twist.

"I approve," he said. The words were simple, but his voice carried weight. "Go make sure the last item fits. Properly."

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and walked back to the fitting room on trembling legs. Behind her, Alexa appeared, holding the second garment bag.

Elena closed the door, unzipped the bag, and pulled out a swimsuit.

Molten crimson. A two-piece. The bottom was a bikini cut, but one side had two thin strings tying the front to the back, leaving her one hip bare. The top wrapped around her breasts and crossed behind her neck with a single strap, leaving one shoulder uncovered.

She stepped into the bottoms and tied the side strings. Then the top—adjusting the strap, settling the fabric over her breasts. It fit like it had been painted on her body. The color deepened the tone of her skin, drew the eye exactly where the cut exposed her.

She turned in front of the mirror. She looked incredible. She also felt completely exposed.

A knock. "Miss Rossi? Fit okay?"

"Yes," she managed. "Good."

She stripped it off quickly, pulled on her original blouse and skirt, and gathered the items. When she emerged and handed Alexa the remaining items.

Elena wandered toward the front of the store while Liam spoke with Alexa. The tall windows overlooked the street, turning the city outside into a moving display of suits, handbags, and hurried footsteps.

Among the movement, one figure remained still.

A ruggedied man in a dark and worn out jacket stood on the opposite sidewalk, partially hidden beneath the awning of a neighboring shop, but as he looked towards her direction, he looked away and started walking away from the store.

Elena shifted back to Alexa murmured thanks. The transaction was smooth, and soon they were outside, the afternoon sun warming the pavement. The driver helping load the new clothing into the cars trunk.

Liam gestured down the street. "There's a coffee shop around the corner. I found they have a very good espresso."

She blinked. "You want to get coffee?"

"I want you to try it. I've also been told their pastries are exceptional."

The invitation caught her off guard. It was almost normal. He was almost human. "Alright," she said after a pause. "I'd like that."

Liam nodded to the driver, who stepped out of the sedan.

“We'll walk. Meet us by the main square.”

The driver gave a quick nod and got behind the wheel. Liam turned back to Elena, resting a hand against the small of her back and guiding her toward a narrow alley between the buildings.

“Come. It's faster this way.”

They turned into the alley. Brick walls rose on either side, damp where the sunlight couldn't reach, and the air smelled of wet stone. Liam walked half a step ahead of her, his shoulders broad beneath the blue suit.

Then a shadow moved ahead of them.

A man stepped from a recessed doorway, a knife catching the light in his hand.

Recognition flickered through her. The man from the opposite sidewalk. The same worn-out jacket.

Then he lunged.

“Elena!”

Liam moved before she could scream. He stepped between them, his forearm snapping up as the blade came down. Steel struck bone with a sharp crack. The man recoiled, then slashed again.

Liam caught his wrist.

He twisted hard, forcing the man's arm aside, but the attacker's free hand came up with a second knife.

The blade drove into Liam's upper chest.

Liam grunted and shoved him back with enough force to send him stumbling several steps. The attacker stared at him, disbelief flashing across his face.

Liam took a step toward him and the man's eyes widened. He turned and started to run.

Liam started after him, but his next step faltered. He stopped, one hand rising to his shoulder.

When he pulled it away, his palm was red.

Elena stared at the blood. “Liam?”

He swayed, but for a moment, he seemed to catch himself. Then his knees gave slightly beneath him.

Elena moved as quickly as she could and caught him as he fell—his weight slamming into her, driving her to her knees on the asphalt. She lowered him, her hands already pressing around the wound. Blood pulsed between her fingers, warm and thick.

"Don't move. Don't—" She tore at her blouse, frantic, ripping a strip of fabric and wadding it against the entry wound. "I need to call an ambulance—"

"No." His voice was a rasp. With his free hand, he pulled a phone from his jacket, pressed one button, and held it to his ear. "Main alley east of Valerius corner. Single. SW substitute. Bring the quiet kit." He coughed, blood already spreading across the front of his shirt. "Now."

The phone slipped from his fingers. His eyes closed as his phone clattered to the ground with his arm falling back beside him.

"Liam—" She pressed harder on the wound. "Liam, stay with me—"

His chest rose. Fell. Rose. Slower, the blood spreading under her hands.

She didn't know how long she had been there pressing. Seconds. Minutes. Then tires screeched, and a black SUV tore into the alley's mouth. Two men in dark outfits jumped out, rushing quickly towards them. Fear returned, questioning who would be attacking them next.

One of Elena's hand shot out, grabbing the fallen knife. She rose on her knees, blade pointed at them, her other hand still clamped over Liam's wound. "Stay back."

The lead man stopped, hands raised. "Woah. I’m Dr. Elias. Thorn’s medical team."

She searched his face. Hard lines. Open hands. No weapons drawn.

"Liam," he said, the name dropping like a password. "He called for medical help. We are trained medics. Let us help him."

The knife clattered to the asphalt. Elena sagged, the adrenaline draining, and the world tilted. The last thing she saw was the men addressing Liam’s wound, their voices urgent but controlled.

• Then the dizziness hit her and her hands began to shake. She leaned back, meaning to steady herself—but the world slipped out from under her before she could. She tried to focus on the sky, to hold onto something solid, but it blurred at the edges—and then it was gone.