Kael Thorne studied her like a chess master sizing up an opponent. In the amber wash of the distant streetlight, his face looked carved from marble—beautiful, cold, utterly merciless.
"You're bleeding."
Elara blinked, the word slicing through the fog of terror. "What?"
His thumb traced the ridge of her cheek with a gentleness that felt almost cruel. When he pulled his hand back, the pad was stained red. "You must've scraped yourself when you ran. Such a shame to damage something so lovely."
His casualness—talking about her as if she were a scratched painting—nauseated her. She tried to step away. His other hand settled at the base of her throat, fingers splayed across the pulse point like a bookmark.
"I asked you a question, Elara." The way he said her name was silk folded over a knife. "What exactly did you see in that alley?"
Lie. Every survival instinct screamed it. Lie, and maybe you walk away. Lie and maybe you live.
"I told you, I didn't—"
"Tsk." The sound was almost a whisper, sharp as broken glass. "We've already established lying doesn't suit you. Shall we try again?"
His men formed a loose ring, hemming them in. Up close, their suits still screamed money—but so did the shapes under the fabric. Bulges that spelled guns. Professionals. Efficient. Used to this.
The man to her left could have been a linebacker—huge and compact, eyes like flint. The one behind Kael was wiry, all contained coiled speed. The third checked his watch with bored precision, like someone waiting to be bored to death.
This is their job, she thought. They've done this before.
"I saw…" Her throat closed around words that tasted like copper and fear. "I saw you kill someone."
"Better." Kael's smile didn't touch his eyes. "Though 'kill' is such an ugly word. I prefer… problem-solving." He said it like a lecture, like explaining a math problem to a child.
"He had a family." The sentence slipped out, reckless hot anger fueling it. "He said he had a family."
Something flickered in Kael's black eyes—surprise, maybe, that she answered back instead of collapsing. "Yes. Wife, two children, a mortgage in Westchester. Want to know what else he had?"
She didn't answer. He didn't need permission. His voice took on the rhythm of a professor explaining inevitability.
"Three offshore accounts. Money siphoned from my operations. A gambling habit that started as 'just a few hands' and ballooned into seven figures. And a foolish belief that I wouldn't notice."
He edged closer. The expensive fabric of his jacket brushed the threadbare sleeve of her cardigan. The contrast hit her like a physical shove—wealth against want, power against someone with nowhere to go.
"Marcus Walsh wasn't an innocent family man, angel. He was a thief. Greedy. He forgot who he stole from."
"That doesn't give you the right to—"
"To what?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper that somehow carried more menace than a shout. "To protect what's mine? To ensure betrayal has consequences? You have a terribly romanticized view of justice, don't you?"
The big man to her left cleared his throat. "Boss, we should move. NYPD patrols this area in twenty minutes."
Kael didn't blink. "Of course they do. I pay them to."
The words landed like a physical blow. She tasted copper again. This wasn't some local thug with fantasies—this man had reach. Influence. Money that made police into conveniences.
You are in so much trouble, her mind supplied, blunt and useless.
"Now," Kael said, voice even, "the question is: what do I do with you?"
Her mouth felt like sand. "I won't tell anyone. I swear. I'll forget this happened. I'll move—change my name—do whatever you want—"
"Shh." He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. The touch burned. "Panic doesn't suit you either. Let me think."
He was thinking. About her. About whether she lived or didn't. He considered her the way someone might choose a bottle of wine—calm, measuring, amused.
"You could kill me," she breathed, against his finger. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"
"The thought crossed my mind." His honesty landed colder than any threat.
"It would be clean. Efficient." He spoke like a man reciting facts. "My men are very good at making problems disappear."
"But?" she breathed.
"But you interest me, Elara Chen." His fingertip traced the curve of her lower lip—feather-light and devastating. "Do you know how rare that is?"
She couldn't draw a proper breath. Couldn't think past the way he looked at her—as if she were a puzzle he wanted solved, a painting he wanted to own, a challenge he wanted to break.
"I don't understand," she whispered.
"No, I don't imagine you do." He stepped back a fraction, enough to give air but not enough to let her run. "Tell me—what were you doing in this part of town? Don't say 'shortcut.' I know desperation when I see it."
The question landed like a punch. "I… I needed to get home. I don't have bus fare."
"Why don't you have bus fare?"
"Because I got fired today." The words scraped out of her like glass.
"Why were you fired?"
"Because I'm apparently too distracting for customers." Bitterness edged her voice. "Three years perfect attendance, and they toss me for men who can't eat without staring."
Something in his face shifted—an almost tender flicker, like he recognized small cruelties. "And you need the money because?"
"My mother." Her voice broke. "She has cancer. Stage three. Her treatments… I can't afford them. If I don't find two thousand dollars in seventy-two hours, they'll stop her chemo."
Silence folded between them. One of his men moved impatiently behind Kael. Kael lifted a hand, not looking back.
"Two thousand dollars," he repeated, tasting the number.
"I know it's nothing to someone like you, but—"
"Someone like me?" He amused himself with the phrase.
"Rich. Powerful. Someone who buys people and makes problems disappear."
He laughed—low, dark. "You have no idea what someone like me is capable of, angel."
The pet name should have soothed. Instead it felt like a brand—marking her in ways she didn't understand.
From inside his jacket he drew something that froze her blood.
A gun. Sleek, black, the same blade of metal that had ended Marcus Walsh minutes before.
Her knees nearly gave. Kael's free hand caught her waist, steadying her with casual strength.
"Please," she whispered, staring at the weapon. "Please don't—"
"Easy." His voice softened as he raised the gun.
But he didn't aim. Instead, with a practiced motion, he fished a white handkerchief from his breast pocket. Silk glided over barrel and grip—wipe, polish, erase. Movements honed by repetition, by routine. Evidence removed as if it were lint.
Then, impossibly, he dabbed the cut at her cheek with the same cloth. Tender. Attentive. The inconsistency of it made her stomach turn.
"There." He tucked the silk back inside his jacket like a keepsake. "Much better."
The scene was obscene: the methodical cleaning of a murder weapon followed by the gentle care of a tiny wound. Violence and tenderness braided together until they were indistinguishable.
He holstered the gun with the same elegant calm he used to adjust his tie. His men shifted, aligning like a single living machine.
"Viktor." His voice cut the night. The massive man at her side straightened, alert. "Contact Dr. Martinez at Mercy General. Mrs. Chen's account is to be settled in full. Anonymous donation."
Elara reeled. "How do you—"
"Know about your mother's doctor? About her account?" Kael's smile was winter-keen. "Angel, I've known about you far longer than you realize."
The words iced her. This was not chance. Not wrong place, wrong time.
This was deliberate.
"Why?" Her question barely found air.
"Because," he said, reaching out to trace her jaw as if mapping a territory, "you're going to be very useful to me."
He straightened, smoothing his tie like a man preparing for dessert, not a man who'd just ordered a death. His crew fell into place around him, efficient and silent.
"Boss?" the wiry one asked.
Kael looked at Elara one last time—taking her in, from face to threadbare cardigan to scuffed shoes. When his eyes returned to hers there was a promise in them that made something inside her snap.
"Bring her."