For several seconds, Elena couldn't remember where she was. She knew only that she was lying in a bed that wasn't hers. Not her apartment, nor the manor.

The room was small but clean — like a private clinic, but not a hospital. No machines beeping, no IV drip in her arm. Just a medical bed, a chair, a window with the blinds drawn, and the quiet hum of ventilation.

She frowned and pushed herself up slightly.

Then the alley came back.

The knife, the blood.

Liam!

She turned her head too quickly, the motion sending a dull throb through her temples. He sat in a chair by the wall, half in shadow, his head buried in his hands. Shirtless. A thick white bandage wrapped around his chest and shoulder, the gauze stark against his skin. His breathing was slow, even — asleep, or close to it, his posture one of exhaustion rather than rest. His black hair was disheveled, spiked at odd angles, and the five o'clock shadow on his jaw looked darker now, heavier.

Elena's gaze drifted to the trash bin near the door. A crumpled blue suit jacket and a white dress shirt, both dark with dried blood, jutted out from the top. The sight sent a cold spike through her chest. The alley. The knife. The blood on her hands.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, the sheets rustling. Her head swam, and she pressed a palm to her forehead, waiting for the room to stop tilting. Her throat felt raw, her mouth dry.

The rustle must have been enough of a disturbance; Liam stirred, his shoulders shifting, and then his head lifted. His blue eyes found her, and something flickered in them — relief, or maybe just alertness — before his face settled back into that controlled mask she knew too well.

"Easy," he said, his voice rough with sleep. "Take it slow."

Elena blinked at him. Her own voice came out cracked, barely a whisper. "Where are we?"

"A private clinic." He straightened in the chair, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his bandage. "We are safe here."

She let that sink in, then asked the question that pressed the hardest. "What happened?"

Liam leaned back, his eyes scanning her face as if checking for damage. "You fainted. The medical team got to us, stabilized the wound, and brought us both here for further care." He paused, his eyes shifting to look right at her. "You rushed to my side."

Elena frowned.

"The team said you were covered in my blood." His gaze settled on her. "When they arrived, you were kneeling beside me, trying to keep pressure on the wound. They had to convince you to move."

The memory surfaced in fragments. Blood on her hands. A voice shouting for medical supplies. Her own heartbeat hammering in her ears.

“I thought you were dying.”

Liam held her gaze for a long moment.

“Most people would have run.” His voice was quiet. “But you stayed.”

She looked down at her hands. They were clean now. Someone had washed away every trace of what had happened.

Only then did she notice the sleeves covering her arms. The fabric was soft, but unfamiliar against her skin. She looked down and realized she was no longer wearing the clothes she'd had on at Valerius. Instead, she was dressed in loose gray sweatpants and an oversized shirt that smelled faintly of detergent.

Her stomach tightened.

“Wait.” She looked up at Liam. “Did you... change my clothes?”

For the first time since she'd woken, a genuine smile touched his face.

“No.”

The answer came so quickly that some of the tension left her shoulders.

“The nurses did.” His smile lingered. “I was a little occupied getting stitched back together.”

Despite herself, Elena let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

Liam's expression settled again, though the warmth remained in his eyes.

Her thoughts returned to his statement. “I didn't think about it.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

Her eyes snapped back to his.

A faint crease appeared between his brows.

“You were terrified,” he said. “And yet, you still stayed.”

Elena didn't answer.

“When my people arrived, you were more concerned about whether I was alive than what might happen to you.” His gaze held hers. “I hadn't expected that.”

She didn't know what to say to that.

"You saved my life, Elena." The words settled heavily between them. "I won't forget it."

Silence stretched between them. Elena shifted, trying to sit up fully, and the room tilted. She grabbed the edge of the mattress, breathing through the dizziness. Liam rose from the chair — slowly, carefully, one hand braced against the wall — and crossed to the bed.

“You should rest,” he said. But he didn't leave. He stood there, close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"I'm fine." She wasn't, but she said it anyway. "What about you? How bad is it?"

He touched the bandage, a brief, dismissive gesture. "Clean wound. Missed anything vital."

"Vital." She almost laughed at the word, but it came out as a dry exhale. "You got stabbed."

"It looks worse than it is." His tone was flat, matter-of-fact. Then he was quiet for a long moment, his gaze dropping to the floor.

For a moment, he didn't speak. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening as though the answer were somewhere beneath his feet.

Elena almost expected him to fall back on logic. Procedure. Cause and effect. Something clean enough to hold onto. That was what Liam did. He turned everything into something that made sense, even when it didn't.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. "Why?"

Elena frowned. "Why, what?"

He looked up, and Elena found herself looking directly into his eyes.

She'd seen them countless times—the striking blue she'd learned to avoid when his attention settled on her—but she'd never really stopped to look. Up close, they weren't simply blue. There were darker shades around his pupils, almost navy, fading into a lighter blue toward the edges. The light caught in them, making them seem clearer than she'd ever noticed before. For once, she didn't look away.

“Why did you save me? You had the knife. You could have let me bleed out. The contract would have meant nothing. You'd be free—no debt, no obligation, no me.”

He paused. The next words came slower.

“You could have walked away.”

And there it was.

Not the question she'd expected. It sounded like it belonged to the contract, but somehow it didn't feel like it did.

The word free stayed with her.

The answer should have been simple. The contract. She'd signed it, and until it was over, there were consequences to breaking it. Nothing about her situation allowed for a clean exit.

But if Liam had died in that alley, there would have been no contract left to break.

No more commands. No more Thorn Manor. She could have gone back to her apartment, back to Marco and Lisa, back to the life she'd been trying to reclaim. The thought should have felt like relief.

It didn't.

Instead, she remembered the alley. Blood soaking through expensive wool. Liam dropping to one knee. The panic that had seized her when she thought he might die.

She hadn't stopped to think about the contract then. She hadn't thought about freedom or consequences. She'd moved before she'd even realized what she was doing.

Because she couldn't stand there and watch someone die when she could do something about it.

She wasn't about to give him that answer.

“I'm not answering that,” she said, her voice steadier than she'd expected.

If she told him it was because of the contract, it would be a lie. The contract was still there, still binding her to him, but it wasn't what had made her move in that alley.

For the first time since she'd woken, genuine irritation flickered across his face.

“So apparently, being stabbed isn't enough to get me out of my responsibilities.”

Despite herself, Elena almost smiled.

“Again, you should rest.”

“What about you?”

His gaze dropped to the phone in her hand.

“Apparently, I have problems waiting for me.”

Before she could respond, he stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him. The latch clicked softly into place.

Why had she saved him?

She pressed her palms against her eyes, but the alley came back anyway—the flash of the knife, the blood spreading across his shirt, the sound of his grunt when the blade went in. She'd moved before she'd had time to think.

Not because of the contract. Not because she'd wanted to stay at Thorn Manor. She'd seen him bleeding, and she'd acted.

Because she couldn't stand there and watch a man die when she had the chance to help him.

That should have been enough.

She let out a long, shaky breath and stared at the ceiling. Her decision hadn't made anything simpler. Liam was still Liam. The man who controlled her contract. The man with connections throughout the city. The man she'd spent weeks trying to understand and failing.

And yet, for a moment, she'd seen something else.

The way he'd looked at her when he'd asked why she'd saved him. There had been no command in his voice, no certainty, none of the control he carried so easily.

Just a man who had nearly died, asking a question he genuinely wanted answered.

Elena lowered her hands.

She still didn't know what that meant.

She only knew she would have done the same thing again.

The minutes crawled. She drifted in and out, the exhaustion pulling her under. A nurse came and went, checking her vitals without conversation.

Elena lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, her mind churning through everything she'd seen and heard. The antiseptic smell clung to her nostrils. The hum of ventilation filled the space between her thoughts.

She didn't know how long she drifted. Minutes. Maybe longer. The exhaustion pulled at her bones, but sleep wouldn't come—every time she closed her eyes, she saw the knife again, the blood, Liam's face as he collapsed.

Somewhere beyond the door, the building shifted—soft movement in the hallway, a door closing further down the corridor.

Then voices. Low. Male. One of them she recognized instantly—that controlled baritone that never rose, never rushed. The other was older, rougher, with an edge of urgency.

Victor.

Elena sat up slowly, her head protesting the movement. The door was closed, but it was thin—cheap hollow wood, the kind that came standard in rooms like this. She could make out words if she focused.

She shouldn't listen.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed anyway, her bare feet meeting cold tile. The sweatpants hung loose on her hips. She crossed to the door on silent steps, pressing her ear close to the gap where the frame met the wood.

“—confirms it was a targeted hit.” Victor's voice was tight, controlled. “The first blade was treated with a fast-acting paralytic. If it had taken hold, Thorn would've been down within minutes.”

Elena's stomach tightened.

“The second blade wasn't treated.” Victor paused. “That was the lucky part.”

A brief pause.

Liam’s voice followed, flat and cold. “They wanted me alive.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Victor said, slower now. “What we can rule out is a tail. The driver didn't spot anyone behind them. No sustained pursuit. Nothing that held long enough to track a stop.”

A shift of fabric. A quiet exhale.

“So it wasn’t someone following the car,” Victor continued. “If it was, it would’ve been noticed.”

“Which leaves timing,” Liam said.

“Exactly.” Victor’s voice hardened slightly. “They weren’t reacting to our movements. They were waiting for you, somehow knew you would be here. Now the question is, how?”

A pause stretched, heavier now.

“And who?" Liam asked.

The other man spoke up next. The voice took a moment, but Elena placed it as the doctor who helped them in the alleyway. Dr. Elias.

“We're still inspecting the knife for any DNA. But there's been recent movement in the Underworld. They've been quiet for months—too quiet. And there are rumors he's been consolidating ever since the Dat—”

The voices cut off suddenly.

Elena froze.

For a long, horrible second, there was nothing but the hum of the ventilation and her own heartbeat. Then she heard footsteps approaching the door.

She stepped back just as it opened.

Liam stood in the doorway, shirtless, the bandage across his chest stark against his skin. His blue eyes settled on her.

Behind him, Victor stood with his arms crossed, a garment bag hanging from one hand.

Elena couldn't tell if either of them had seen her standing there.

“I—” The excuse caught in her throat.

Victor stepped forward into the room, his eyes scanning Elena with a quick, professional assessment. "Miss Rossi. Good to see you awake."

“I just got up,” she lied, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I was wondering where everyone had gone.”

Victor nodded, giving her a reassuring smile. “Of course.”

Liam entered the room and said nothing. He looked at her for a moment, then glanced toward the garment bag Victor had been holding.

Victor handed it to him without a word.

Liam pulled out a crisp white dress shirt and carefully worked it over his shoulders. The movement was slower than usual, and a brief wince crossed his face when he twisted toward his injured side.

Liam finished buttoning the shirt, leaving the top two buttons undone, the white fabric stark against the bandage visible at his collar. He rolled his shoulders, testing the range of motion, then turned back to face them. His mask was firmly in place—no trace of the vulnerability she'd seen earlier, nothing but the cold, calculating businessman she'd first met.

"I need to make more calls," he said, his voice flat. "Victor will stay with you until I am ready to leave. Then you will both go back to the manor."

"Both?" Elena frowned. "You're not coming?"

Liam paused at the door, one hand resting against the frame.

“I have some things to deal with. Until we know who that man was, I don't want you taking any chances.”

He looked at her.

“Stay close to Victor. Don't leave the manor until I return.”

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

The room felt emptier without him. Elena let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Victor stood by the wall, his arms uncrossed now, his hands loose at his sides. He was tall—taller than she'd realized from the brief glimpses she'd caught before. Broad-shouldered, thick through the chest and arms, the kind of build that came from years of physical training. His jaw was square, his features younger than she'd expected. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. She wouldn't have guessed much older than that.

But there was something in his eyes that didn't match. A weariness. A depth that came from years, not youth.

Elena studied him openly, and he let her, his gaze steady and patient.

"How old are you?" she asked.

The question hung in the air. Victor's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture—a subtle relaxation, as if he'd expected a harder question.

"I’ll be thirty-eight in a couple of months."

Elena blinked. "What?"

Victor's mouth curved into a faint, dry smile. "I get that a lot. Good genes, I'm told."

She shook her head, processing. Thirty-seven. He looked like he could have passed for Liam’s age—maybe a few years older, but not a whole decade. "You're serious."

"I don't joke about my age." He paused.

Elena stared at him, searching for the lie, the exaggeration. But his eyes held steady, and there was no smirk, no tell. Just a flat, matter-of-fact statement delivered with the certainty of a man who'd answered this question a hundred times before.

She let out a slow breath. "How long have you worked for Mr. Thorn?"

Victor's gaze drifted to the window, the blinds still drawn. His jaw worked for a moment, as if he were counting. "Over fifteen years. I'm not certain of the exact date."

Fifteen years. That meant he'd started when he was twenty-two—or younger. A lifetime in the Thorn family's service.

"You've been with them that long?"

"The family, yes." He turned back to her, his expression unreadable. "I started working with his father. Then when Liam took over, I stayed."

The words were simple, but there was weight behind them—a history she couldn't see, a loyalty she couldn't question.

"Why?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Victor's eyes met hers, and for a moment, the professional mask cracked. Something human flickered beneath—tired, maybe, or sad, or both.

"Because some debts can't be paid with money," he said quietly. "And some loyalties can't be broken, even when they should be."

The silence that followed was heavy, loaded with questions Elena didn't know how to ask. She stood there in her borrowed sweatpants and oversized shirt, barefoot on cold tile, feeling the weight of his words settle into her chest.

Some debts can't be paid with money.

She knew that better than most.

Victor's expression cleared, the mask sliding back into place. He glanced at his watch—a battered thing with a worn leather band—then nodded toward the bed. "We should get going. Do you have all your things?"

Elena gathered the few things she'd been given and followed him out.

Victor drove them back to the manor in silence, the city lights sliding past the tinted windows. Elena pressed her forehead against the cool glass and watched the streets blur, her mind still caught in the alley, in the medical room, in the moment Liam had asked her why, and she'd refused to answer.

The manor gates opened before they reached them, and the gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled up to the main entrance. Victor killed the engine and turned to her, his expression unreadable in the dark. "I'll have Presley bring dinner to your room, if you'd prefer."

Elena shook her head. "I'll eat in the dining hall." She needed people around her—needed the hum of a room that wasn't her own thoughts.

Victor nodded once, and she climbed out.

The manor swallowed her. Warm light, the faint scent of polished wood and old books. She walked through the foyer, her borrowed sweatpants and oversized shirt feeling wrong against the grandeur, and found the dining hall already set for a single place setting. Marta appeared from the kitchen door, her face brightening when she saw Elena.

“There you are!” Marta's voice carried a note of relief. Her eyes swept over Elena's clothes.

“And those—” She stopped, then smiled. “So he did listen.”

Elena looked down at herself, then back at Marta. “What?”

Marta laughed softly, wiping her hands on her apron. “I may have had a little talk with Mr. Thorn yesterday. I told him you needed some new clothes.”

She gave Elena an approving look. “I'm glad to see he took my suggestion.”

Elena stared at her.

“You knew he was taking me shopping?”

“Of course.” Marta shrugged. “He mentioned it yesterday.”

Elena wasn't sure why that caught her off guard. Maybe because so much seemed to happen in this house without her knowing about it.

Marta's smile faded slightly as she looked at Elena more closely. The dark circles beneath her eyes. The tension in her shoulders.

"Elena." Her voice softened. "What happened?"

Elena's throat closed. She stood there in the warm light of the dining hall, still wearing hospital-issue clothes, still smelling antiseptic under the detergent, and felt the walls she'd been holding all day start to crack.

“He was stabbed.”

The words came out flatter than she intended. Elena looked down at her hands, remembering the alley, the sudden movement, the flash of the knife.

“We were walking to get coffee. We took a shortcut through an alley, and this man just came out of nowhere.” She swallowed. “He had a knife. I barely had time to see it before he attacked.”

Marta's face went pale.

“Dio santo.”

“He stepped in front of me.” Elena's voice softened. “He didn't even hesitate. The first time, he blocked the knife with his arm. Then the man came at him again.”

She paused, her fingers tightening together.

“The second one went into his chest.”

Marta stared at her.

“There was so much blood.” Elena's voice wavered. “It was all over his shirt. He tried to stay on his feet, but he started to sway, and I thought—”

She broke off, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Marta asked quietly, “He is alright, right?”

Elena nodded once.

“Yes.”

The breath Marta released sounded almost like a prayer.

She crossed the room in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around Elena.

Elena stiffened, then crumpled. The sob tore out of her chest, raw and ugly, and she buried her face in Marta's shoulder while the older woman held her steady, one hand rubbing slow circles across her back.

"Shh." Marta's voice was low and steady. "You're home now. You're safe."

The words washed over her, and for the first time since the alley, Elena let herself stop holding everything together.

“I thought he was going to die.”

The confession came out in a thin, broken whisper.

For a moment, Marta said nothing. Then she drew Elena into her arms and held her tightly, as though she could keep the memory from reaching her.

“I can see that,” Marta murmured.

Elena clutched at the back of Marta’s coat. “I couldn’t stop the bleeding. I kept trying, but there was so much of it.”

“You did what you could.”

“It didn’t feel like it would be enough.”

“It rarely does.”

Marta eased back, though she kept both hands on Elena’s shoulders. Elena’s face was pale, her eyes fixed on something far beyond the room.

“But he’s alive,” Marta said.

Elena closed her eyes. The words seemed to reach her slowly, passing through the panic and the exhaustion.

“Yes,” she whispered. “He’s alive.”

Marta guided her toward the nearest chair and helped her sit. Then she crossed the room, filled a glass with water, and pressed it into Elena’s trembling hands.

“Drink,” she said gently.

Elena stared down at the glass.

“Then,” Marta continued, taking the chair beside her, “we’ll talk about something else.”

Elena drank. The water was cold and clean. She set the glass down and stared at the tablecloth, her breathing slowly evening out.

"Your friend," Marta said gently. "Lisa. She's coming Friday, yes?"

Elena nodded, grateful for the shift. "Yes, at noon."

"What's she like?" Marta settled into the chair beside her, her voice easy, conversational—the practiced calm of someone who knew how to coax a person back from the edge.

Elena thought about it. "She's loud. Colorful hair—black with streaks of purple and pink most recently. She's a graphic designer. She talks with her hands. She'll probably try to take over your kitchen within an hour of walking through the door."

Marta smiled. "I'd like to see her try."

“She’s the only person who’s ever made me feel normal.”

Elena’s voice cracked on the last word. She lowered her gaze, fixing it on the glass of water between her hands. The surface trembled whenever her fingers tightened around it.

“She doesn’t know,” she continued. “About any of this. She thinks I took a job.”

Marta nodded slowly. “And what will you tell her?”

Elena watched her reflection waver in the water. For a moment, she imagined Lisa sitting across from her instead—smiling, asking questions, waiting for an answer Elena could never give.

“I don’t know.”

Marta didn’t press her. She simply waited, patient and still.

Elena swallowed. “I want to tell her the truth.” She lifted her eyes, uncertainty flickering across her face. “Or at least… some of it.”

“Some of it?”

“I can’t tell her everything.” Elena looked down again. “Not yet. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

The silence between them stretched. Somewhere beyond the room, a door closed, followed by the muffled sound of footsteps fading down the hall.

“She’ll know something is wrong,” Marta said.

“I know.” Elena let out a quiet breath. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Her thumb traced the rim of the glass.

“I don’t know how to lie to her. I never have.”

“Then don’t lie,” Marta said gently. “Tell her what you can.”

Elena looked at her, searching her face for doubt or judgment. She found neither.

Marta reached across the table and squeezed her hand. The warmth of the gesture steadied Elena, though only slightly.

“And we’ll make sure the visit goes smoothly,” Marta continued. “I’ll prepare something special.” A faint smile touched her lips. “What does she like to eat?”

The question was so ordinary, so warm, that Elena almost laughed. "She'll eat anything, but she loves sushi. And dessert. Anything with chocolate."

Marta's smile widened. "Then I'll see what I have on hand, and we'll keep her fed and happy." She stood, brushing off her apron. "You rest. I'll bring dinner to your room. You've had enough of this dining hall for one night."

Elena opened her mouth to argue, but no argument came. She was too tired, too raw. She nodded instead, and Marta's hand found her shoulder again, brief and warm, before the older woman disappeared back into the kitchen.