The silence after Kael's words felt like the air before an earthquake—heavy, waiting, filled with energy that could shatter everything in seconds.
Scarface moved first. His hand slid toward the bulge under his jacket, practiced, smooth. "Well, well. The Ice Man himself. You're a little outside your territory, aren't you, Thorne?"
"Am I?" Kael's voice sounded casual. Like a man talking about the weather while standing over a fresh grave. He didn't move from beside his car. Didn't reach for a weapon. Didn't shift his weight. He just stood there—unshakable, beautiful, and terrible in the sodium light.
"This is neutral ground," Brooklyn said. His words tried for confidence, but his voice betrayed him. "Public space. No one's breaking any agreements here."
"No agreements," Kael echoed. His smile was thin and sharp, like winter wind. "Just courtesy. The kind that says you ask permission before touching what's mine."
What's mine.
The words hit Elara's skin like a touch. Possessive. Wrong. Thrilling.
Scarface chuckled, pulling out his cigarette pack with deliberate slowness. "Funny. We heard you weren't in protection anymore. Thought you'd gone respectable. More… legitimate business."
"I'm a businessman with diverse interests." Kael finally moved. One step from the car—smooth, predatory, certain. "Some of those interests are more personal than others."
Behind him, headlights cut across the lot. Two more cars slid in silent as sharks. Viktor stepped out of the first—massive, broad-shouldered, darkness itself. From the second came a man Elara didn't know. Smaller than Viktor but still more dangerous somehow, with the stillness of someone who lived one heartbeat from violence.
The odds shifted fast. From two against one to five against two. Everyone there knew it.
"This doesn't have to get messy," Brooklyn said. His hand moved anyway, slow toward his weapon. "Walk away, Thorne. She's not worth a war."
The air grew colder.
"The girl," Kael said softly. Almost a whisper. "She has a name. And she's worth exactly what I say she's worth."
I'm not worth a war. I'm not worth anything. I'm just a waitress who saw the wrong thing.
But looking at his face—cold, furious, carved into ice and starlight—Elara knew her opinion didn't matter.
"Last chance," Scarface said. His gun cleared leather, smooth from long practice. "Back off, or this turns ugly."
Kael laughed then. Quiet. Soft. A sound like silk slashed with broken glass. "Gentlemen, you're laboring under a fundamental misunderstanding."
Viktor and the other man spread out, flanking, moving with the rhythm of years of practice.
"And what's that?" Brooklyn demanded. His gun wavered between them.
"You think," Kael whispered, deadly soft, "you're the predators here."
It all happened at once.
Viktor lunged forward, three strides of liquid violence. Straight at Brooklyn. The smaller man slipped through Scarface's line of fire like smoke, untouchable. Gunshots ripped the night—two, three, echoing sharp off concrete.
Then silence.
Elara pressed herself against a car, hands clamped over her ears. Her heart hammered like it wanted to break through bone. When she looked up, both men were down. Scarface lay still in a pool of darkness. Brooklyn clutched his shoulder, keening noises spilling out of him.
"Clean this up," Kael said to Viktor, calm as if discussing the weather. "Make it a deal gone wrong. Rival factions. Drugs. Whatever story sells."
"Yes, sir."
"And Viktor?" Kael adjusted his tie, elegance unbroken. "Make sure our friend here understands. Ms. Chen is untouchable. Permanently. I don't care which crew he belongs to or who he answers to. If anyone touches her again, I'll make Marcus look lucky."
Brooklyn nodded, face pale, slick with pain and terror.
Only then did Kael turn to Elara.
She trembled, head to toe. Not from October cold but from the brutality she'd just seen. Three men dead or ruined. And Kael looked like he'd just closed a business deal.
This is him. Not the charming businessman. Not the elegant mask. This.
"Elara." His voice softened, gentle, the same tone he'd used when wiping blood from her cheek. "Are you hurt?"
She couldn't answer. Couldn't move past the gunshots still echoing in her skull.
"Answer me." Still gentle—but with steel beneath. A warning. Gentleness was a choice. One he could revoke.
"No." It slipped out. A whisper. "I'm not hurt."
"Good." He stepped close enough that she smelled him—bergamot, gunpowder. Wealth and violence married in scent. "Did they touch you?"
Define touch.
"They were going to take me," she said. Her throat ached. "They had zip ties. They said they'd use me to send you a message."
Something shifted in his eyes. Rage. Or maybe satisfaction at being right. "And now they won't."
Because you killed them. Because it cost you nothing.
"How did you know?" she blurted.
"Know what?"
"Where to find me. How to find me."
His smile returned. Soft. Sharp. A blade in silk. "Angel, I told you. I know everything about you. Where you sleep. Where you shop. Where you hide when you think you're invisible." His finger traced her jaw. "Did you really think moving apartments would erase you from me?"
Even when the BMW wasn't there… he was still watching.
"Sarah," she whispered. Terror crashed through shock. "If they know about her—"
"She's safe. My people have her building covered. No one will touch her." His thumb pressed her pulse, steady and strong. "But this little experiment in independence? It ends now."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, stepping so close she had to tilt her head back, "you just proved my point. The world is full of predators. People who see you as a way to get to me."
Connection to you. As if I chose this.
"The only way to keep you safe is to keep you close." His hand spread across her throat, protective and possessive at once. "Very close."
He planned this. Or let it happen. So I'd need him.
She couldn't tell if she was right. But it didn't matter. The result was the same.
"I can take care of myself," she said. But the words rang hollow.
"Can you?" He flicked a glance toward the bloodied lot. "From where I stand, you need me more than you'll admit."
I hate you. I hate that you're right. I hate that I'm grateful.
"That's twice now," he said, velvet low. "Twice I've saved you. First from Marcus Walsh. Now from Dmitri's dogs."
His grip at her throat tightened, just a little. Not choking. Just reminding.
"Do you know what that means in my world, angel?"
She couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past his eyes—claiming her, already certain she was his.
"It means," he murmured, leaning close, breath brushing her lips, "you belong to me. Completely. Irrevocably."
No.
"No." It slipped out, thin, weak, already defeated.
"Yes." His smile was terrible and beautiful. Like angels falling. "The sooner you accept it, the easier it'll be."
Behind him, Viktor cleaned up with quiet skill. In twenty minutes, nothing would remain. Just shadows. Just another story for the morning news, gone by evening.
Two more lives erased because she was in the wrong place. Two more debts she could never repay.
"You belong to me now, Elara Chen," Kael whispered, branding her with every word. "Body. Mind. Spirit. And I take very good care of what's mine."