The morning light cut through the curtains like a blade. Elena blinked against it, her body heavy from another night of restless sleep, the dream already dissolving at the edges—just a feeling left 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 got out of bed as she 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. Hair a mess. She looked like someone who'd been running for days.

She splashed water on her face in the bathroom, ran her fingers through her hair until it wasn't a disaster, and tucked the blouse into the skirt. Functional. Professional. The uniform of someone who still had some say.

She opened her door and stepped into the hallway—and nearly walked 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 to her, his gaze holding that same stone look.

Elena walked down the steps, her flats against the stone. "Hello, Mr. Thorn, where are we going?"

"Into town."

He reached for the rear door and pulled it open. Held it. 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 sound solid and final, and then he walked around the other side. The driver's neck was stiff, his hands at ten and two, eyes on the rearview mirror.

Thorn got in beside her. The door clicked shut.

The car pulled forward, the manor shrinking in the side mirror, and Elena stared out the window at the trees blurring past. The silence stretched. She could feel him beside her—the weight of him, the stillness. His leg was inches from hers. She kept her hands in her lap.

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

Thorn turned his head to look at her, that steady blue gaze settling on her face like he was reading something she couldn't hide. She suddenly became aware of her collar, of how close the fabric sat against her skin, and curled her fingers into her palms to stop herself from fidgeting with it.

"Your wardrobe," he said.

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 hung in her closet like unspoken promises. All the avoided clothing she had yet to touch. "I have clothes, Mr. Thorn. Plenty of them. You've already—"

"Those are mostly work clothes," he said, and his voice was patient, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to explain something simple to someone slow. "The contract is clear on this, I am to ensure you have all your needed attire."

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

"Your apartment has been cleared out. Everything's in storage." He didn't look at her when he said it, just stared ahead at the back of the driver's head. "The contract is clear on this, Miss Rossi. I'm responsible for your attire. It's part of the arrangement."

She turned in her seat to face him fully, her hands gripping the leather. "I don't need you to pick out my clothes."

He didn’t respond as he looked at her from the corner of his eye, his stone business-like face slightly shifting into a more relaxed look.

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

"I can." His tone didn't rise. It stayed flat and even, like the surface of a deep lake. "And I am. The contract gives me responsibility for your attire, and I will take that responsibility seriously."

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 twisted into his design. 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 inside one of them, calm and infallible.

She let out a breath. "Fine."

"Good."

She saw it then. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—something smaller. A ghost of one. And his gaze, which had been that flat, unreachable stone all morning, shifted. A fraction. Like he was looking at her differently. Closer.

"What?" she said.

"Nothing."

"You're smirking."

"I don't smirk."

"That was a smirk."

He didn't deny it again. The ghost stayed at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes held hers a second longer than they should have. Elena looked away so quickly it almost felt obvious and turned toward the window, her heart beating too hard for no reason at all.

The car slowed.

She saw it through the glass: 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, and he followed one step behind her, close enough that she could feel his presence like a second shadow. A woman in a tailored black suit opened the door before they reached it.

The interior of Valerius opened around her like a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, racks of clothing spaced so far apart they felt like exhibits in a gallery, and a ceiling that rose two stories high with a crystal chandelier that caught the light and threw it across the walls in fractured rainbows. The air smelled of cedar and something floral—jasmine, maybe—and it was cool without being cold, calibrated to the exact temperature where fabric felt good against skin.

Elena stopped three steps in, her flats silent against the marble, and took it in. She'd been to high-end boutiques before. 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 seen through 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 with his chin toward the racks. "Start looking. I want you to pick out what you think you'll need."

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

His face softened at her question. "Did you want me to?"

The question landed somewhere low in her chest, and she didn't know what to do with it. She shook her head quickly—maybe too quickly—and turned toward the nearest rack of blouses before he could see the heat rising on her neck again.

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. She was his. 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. Silk. Colors she'd never worn—deep burgundy, forest green, midnight blue. Sets that clearly went together, bras and panties designed to be seen. She picked up a bralette in soft ivory, the lace delicate but not transparent, and turned it over in her hands.

Not lingerie. But close. Closer than she'd ever owned.

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 had appeared two racks away, a garment bag draped over one arm, his attention already on her hands.

"Were you following me?"

"You wandered off."

She hesitated, suddenly aware of what she was holding, and set it back on the rack a little too carefully.

"It’s just… basic," she said, quieter now.

"I didn't say it wasn't."

She set it in her pile. Then added another—simple black, cotton but with a cut that sat higher on the hip, not quite modest but not quite scandalous. A compromise she could live with.

She kept moving. Bras, underwear, a few camisoles. Nothing that screamed seduction, but nothing that felt like she was hiding either. The kind of things a woman wore when she knew she looked good and didn't need to prove it.

The pile grew heavier in her arms. She shifted it, trying not to drop anything, and kept walking.

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. A set in pale pink with tiny white stars scattered across the fabric. The top was button-down, soft flannel, and the bottoms were loose with a drawstring waist. Next to it, a matching set in soft gray with a subtle pinstripe. And a third in cream with little embroidered bees along the collar.

She reached out and touched the pink set. The flannel was impossibly soft. She could feel it against her skin just from holding it.

"Find something?"

She turned. Liam had come up beside her again, quieter than he had any right to be in dress shoes on marble. She was holding the pajama set against her chest and abruptly became aware of how she must look. Like a girl caught holding something she wanted but wasn't sure she was allowed to have.

"These," she said, and her voice came out smaller than she'd intended. "They're—they look comfortable."

He looked at the set. Then at her. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened. Just a fraction.

"You want them?"

She swallowed. "Can I?"

Something in his gaze flickered—just briefly—before he answered.

“You don’t need to ask me that.”

"I—" She stopped. Tried again. "I'd like to get them. If that's alright."

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he reached past her and picked up the cream set with the embroidered bees. He turned it over, examined the stitching, then set it next to the pink one.

"Get both," he said. "And the gray one."

Relief flickered through her chest, warm and unexpected. "Thank you."

He didn't acknowledge it. Instead, his hand moved past the stack of pajama sets and landed on a hanger next to them. A different kind of set—shorts instead of pants, the top cut with thin straps instead of buttons. The fabric was still soft, still comfortable, but there was less of it. More skin. More suggestions.

"Get these too."

She looked at the set in his hands. Pale lavender, the shorts sitting high on the hip, the top cut low at the neckline. It was beautiful. It also showed more than she ever usually showed.

"That's not—" she started.

"It's comfortable," he said, echoing her words from earlier. The faintest edge of something in his voice. A challenge. A test. "You'll like it."

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—meant for 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.

Not professional. Not careful. Not guarded.

Just… right in a way she couldn’t immediately argue with.

She turned slightly, watching the fabric move with her, the lavender catching the light and softening everything it touched. Her skin looked warmer in it. Her eyes sharper by contrast.

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 knock at the door pulled her back.

“Miss Rossi?” Alexa’s voice, muffled through the wood. “How are we doing?”

Elena looked at herself in the mirror one last time. The lavender soft against her skin. The shorts are riding high. The thin straps sitting delicate on her shoulders.

A soft knock pulled her from the mirror. "Miss Rossi?"

Elena's hand went to the hem of the lavender top, instinct pulling it lower, but she stopped herself. "Yes?"

The door cracked open. Alexa smiled, her eyes scanning the outfit with practiced ease, and then her smile widened. "That suits you. Really. You look—" She paused, searching for the word. "Good. You look good."

Elena felt heat rise up 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 corset bodice with decorative boning, no straps—the top would leave her shoulders bare. The skirt flared from the waist, falling to mid-thigh with a soft flow.

"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 at her waist, and the molded cups pressed her breasts upward in a way that felt like a statement. She found the back zipper, pulled it up, and turned to face the mirror.

Her breath caught.

The dress was beautiful. The skirt swayed as she moved, the boning held her straight, and the exposed line of her shoulders made her look—there was no other word for it—expensive. But her collarbone lay bare, the curve of her chest visible at the neckline. More skin 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 the 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. Good espresso."

She blinked. "You want to get coffee?"

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

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

Liam nodded to the driver, who got into the sedan. "We'll walk. Meet us by the main square."

They turned down a narrow alley between buildings—a shortcut, she assumed. The walls were brick, damp from shadow, and the air smelled like wet stone. Liam walked a half-step ahead of her, his shoulders broad in the blue suit.

Then a shadow moved.

A man stepped from a recessed doorway, knife glinting in his hand.

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

Then he lunged.

“Elena!” Liam moved before she could scream—his body interposing, his forearm snapping up to deflect the blade. Steel rang against bone. The man recovered, slashing again, and Liam caught his wrist, twisted. But the man's other hand came up, a second knife flashing, and drove it into Liam's upper chest.

Liam grunted. His hand shot out, shoving the man backward.

The attacker stumbled. For a split second, disbelief flashed across his face.

Liam took a step toward him, and the man's eyes widened. Then he turned quickly and ran.

Liam started to take another step after him. But he slowed as he took his next step. Stopping. His hand came up to his shoulder; it came away red.

He then started to sway.

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 around Valerius corner. Single. SW substitute. Bring the quiet kit." He coughed, blood still seeping along his red 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.

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

The lead man stopped, hands raised. "We're here for Thorn. Liam called us."

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. 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.