Morning came with the kind of reluctance that suggested even the sun was hesitant to illuminate another day in Kael Thorne's carefully controlled world. Elara had barely slept, her dreams fractured by the memory of his kiss and the satisfied smirk on his face when she'd slapped him.
Your fire is what I like most about you.
The words had haunted her through the night, circling her consciousness like sharks scenting blood in the water.
He wants me to fight him. The resistance is part of whatever sick game he's playing.
But this morning there was no time to process the implications of that revelation. Kael had informed her over breakfast—served by staff who pretended not to notice the tension crackling between them—that they would be visiting his mother at the family estate in Greenwich.
"She's expecting us at one," he'd said, not looking up from the financial reports scattered across the dining table. "Lunch will be served at one-thirty, followed by approximately two hours of interrogation disguised as polite conversation."
Interrogation. Perfect. Exactly what I need after last night.
Now she sat in the back of Kael's armored limousine—because of course it was armored—wearing a cream silk dress that probably cost more than her old apartment's yearly rent. The outfit had been laid out for her this morning, complete with pearl earrings and shoes that matched with suspicious precision.
He even controls what I wear to meet his mother. Of course he does.
Kael sat beside her, reviewing something on his tablet with the focused intensity he brought to everything. He'd dressed in what she was beginning to recognize as his "respectable businessman" look—navy suit, white shirt, burgundy tie that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.
The mark from her slap had faded overnight, though she could still see the faint shadow of where her palm had connected with his cheek. The small cut on his lip from her ring was barely visible, but she knew it was there.
Good. Let him carry the reminder of what happens when he takes liberties.
"Stop staring at me," he said without looking up from his screen.
How does he know? He's not even looking at me.
"I'm not staring."
"You've been looking at my face for the past five minutes, cataloging the damage from last night." He finally glanced up, those dark eyes meeting hers with that laser intensity that made her feel exposed. "Satisfied with your handiwork?"
Satisfied. Right. Like violence against my captor is something to be proud of.
"You deserved it," she said, lifting her chin in defiance.
"I did," he agreed, and the easy admission took the wind out of her sails. "Though I have to admit, the irony of being struck with my own engagement ring was not lost on me."
At least he has some self-awareness.
"About last night—" she started, but he held up a hand.
"We're not discussing last night until after lunch with my mother. She has an uncanny ability to detect tension, and I'd prefer not to spend the afternoon explaining why my fiancée looks like she wants to murder me."
Because I do want to murder you. With my bare hands. Very slowly.
"I always want to murder you. That ship sailed weeks ago."
His smile was sharp as winter wind. "Yes, but usually you hide it better. Today you're radiating enough hostility to be concerning."
Good. Maybe if his mother sees how much I hate you, she'll help me escape.
But even as the thought formed, she knew it was pointless. Whatever dysfunction existed in the Thorne family, it had produced Kael—which suggested his mother was either complicit in his darkness or willfully blind to it.
Viktor drove with his usual silent efficiency, navigating the city streets with the kind of awareness that suggested he was constantly scanning for threats. Two additional security vehicles bracketed them—one in front, one behind—which seemed excessive for a trip to Greenwich but was apparently standard procedure in Kael's world.
Because when you've made enough enemies, even Sunday lunch requires a convoy.
They were crossing over the bridge that would take them out of Manhattan when it happened.
The first shot came from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously—a sharp crack that hit the reinforced window on Kael's side with enough force to spiderweb the glass. The bulletproof material held, but the impact sent crystalline fractures spreading across the surface like frozen lightning.
Oh God. Oh God, we're being shot at.
Elara's scream caught in her throat as Kael moved with inhuman speed, his body slamming into hers hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. He pressed her down into the seat with his full weight, one hand cradling her head, the other reaching for the phone in his jacket.
"Contact!" Viktor's voice came through the intercom, calm and professional despite the circumstances. "Multiple shooters, elevated positions. Going evasive."
The second shot hit the rear window—another spiderweb of cracks spreading across reinforced glass that was apparently the only thing standing between them and whatever chaos was unfolding outside.
"How many?" Kael barked into his phone, his body still covering hers like a human shield.
He's protecting me. Actually protecting me with his own body.
The thought was disorienting, cutting through her terror with the sharp clarity of something that didn't fit her carefully constructed narrative of captor and captive.
"At least three, sir," a voice responded through the phone's speaker. "Professional setup, military-grade weapons. This isn't random."
Professional. Military-grade. This is an assassination attempt.
"Lucien?" Kael's voice had gone cold in a way that made her earlier terror seem like a mild inconvenience by comparison.
"Too soon to tell. Could be Dmitri's people making another run, could be someone new."
New. Because apparently Kael has so many enemies that this could be any number of people trying to kill him.
A third shot hit the rear window, and this time the glass began to give—cracks spreading deeper, threatening to shatter completely despite the bulletproof reinforcement.
"Viktor, get us off the bridge," Kael ordered, his voice carrying that absolute authority that brooked no argument. "Route seven, contingency protocol alpha."
"Copy that, sir."
The limousine swerved suddenly, throwing Elara against Kael's chest with enough force to make her gasp. His arm tightened around her, holding her steady as Viktor executed what felt like a controlled crash through the bridge's traffic.
We're going to die. This is it. This is how it ends.
But even as panic threatened to overwhelm her completely, some distant part of her brain was processing the fact that Kael hadn't moved. Hadn't tried to protect himself first, hadn't used her as a shield, hadn't done any of the things a purely selfish captor would do.
He was protecting her. With his body, with his life, with the same intensity he brought to everything else.
Why? Why protect me when I'm just a contract, just a performance, just another acquisition?
"Status on the escort vehicles?" Kael demanded into his phone.
"Lead car took fire but holding. Rear car engaging the shooters. We're clear for now."
Clear for now. Not safe. Just temporarily not being actively murdered.
Another shot rang out—this one hitting the roof with a metallic clang that suggested it had been aimed at the driver but missed. The limousine swerved again, and Elara could hear the squeal of tires against asphalt as Viktor pushed the vehicle beyond what should have been possible for something this heavy.
"How much longer?" Kael's voice remained calm, clinical, like he was discussing traffic patterns instead of their imminent death.
"Thirty seconds to the turnoff. Once we're off the bridge, I can lose them in the industrial district."
Thirty seconds. An eternity when people are shooting at you with military-grade weapons.
Kael's hand tightened in her hair, holding her head against his chest where she could hear his heartbeat—faster than normal but still remarkably controlled given the circumstances.
"Listen to me," he said quietly, his voice cutting through her panic like a blade. "We're going to be fine. The car is armored, Viktor is the best driver I've ever employed, and backup is already en route."
Fine. Right. Because this is just another Tuesday in the life of a billionaire criminal.
"Who's shooting at us?" she managed, her voice muffled against his jacket.
"Does it matter?" His hand shifted to the back of her neck, fingers pressing into the tension there with unexpected gentleness. "Someone who made the catastrophically stupid decision to attack what's mine."
What's mine. Even in the middle of a firefight, he's still claiming ownership.
"They're shooting at you, not me."
"They're shooting at my car, which makes you a target by proximity." His voice took on that edge of steel she was beginning to recognize as barely controlled rage. "Which means someone is going to die very slowly and very publicly for this."
Die very slowly. Because violence is always his answer to everything.
The limousine suddenly accelerated, pressing her more firmly against Kael's chest as Viktor executed what felt like a physics-defying turn. Through the spiderwebbed windows, she caught glimpses of industrial buildings, empty lots, the kind of abandoned spaces where bad things happened in movies.
We're being chased through the industrial district by professional killers. This is insane.
"Almost there," Viktor's voice came through the intercom, still impossibly calm. "Fifteen seconds to the safe house."
Safe house. Of course he has a safe house. Probably has a dozen scattered throughout the city.
Another shot rang out, this one hitting the trunk with enough force to make the entire vehicle shudder. The rear window finally gave way, safety glass exploding inward in a cascade of crystalline fragments that showered across the backseat.
Kael shifted his position immediately, angling his body to shield her from the debris while simultaneously reaching for something beneath the seat.
A gun. Of course he has a gun hidden in the car.
The weapon he withdrew looked military-grade—all black metal and efficient design, the kind of thing that belonged in war zones rather than luxury vehicles.
"How many rounds?" he asked into his phone.
"Magazine of fifteen, one in the chamber. Three more mags in the compartment."
He's actually planning to shoot back. While in a moving vehicle. Being pursued by professional assassins.
"Sir," Viktor's voice held a note of urgency that cut through the clinical efficiency. "Approaching the turnoff now. Thirty seconds to safety, but they're still on us."
"Then lose them," Kael ordered, his voice carrying that absolute certainty that his word would be obeyed regardless of physical impossibility.
The limousine swerved hard left, tires screaming as Viktor pushed the vehicle into a turn that should have sent them into a spin but somehow didn't. Elara's stomach lurched as momentum tried to throw her across the seat, but Kael's arm held her secure—one hand gripping his weapon, the other keeping her pressed against him with bruising force.
He's protecting me. Even now, even in the middle of this chaos, he's protecting me.
Through the shattered rear window, she could see two black SUVs in pursuit—anonymous, professional, moving with the coordinated precision of people who did this for a living.
"How far?" Kael demanded.
"Ten seconds. Garage doors are opening now."
Garage doors. Right. Because the safe house has automated defenses.
Another shot rang out, this one missing completely but close enough that Elara could hear the bullet whistle past the broken window. Kael shifted slightly, angling himself to present a smaller target while still keeping her completely covered.
This is real. This is actually happening. Professional killers are trying to murder us in broad daylight.
"Five seconds," Viktor announced. "Everyone hold on."
The limousine suddenly decelerated so hard that only Kael's grip kept Elara from being thrown forward. She heard the screech of tires, the sound of something metallic clanging, and then—
They were swerving violently, the world spinning in a nauseating blur of motion and momentum. Through the broken windows she caught glimpses of concrete barriers, guardrails that appeared too close, the stomach-dropping sensation of the vehicle leaving the road completely.
Oh God. We're going to crash.
Kael's arms tightened around her with crushing force, his body curling over hers in what she realized with crystalline clarity was preparation for impact.
"Brace!" Viktor's voice cut through the chaos.
The world tilted sideways.
Then everything went dark as the limousine left the road completely, airborne for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity before gravity remembered it existed and yanked them back toward earth with malevolent force.
The impact when they hit was thunder and lightning and the end of the world compressed into a single moment of metal screaming and glass shattering and Kael's body absorbing the force of their collision with something she couldn't see.
Then silence.
Perfect, terrible silence.
Elara couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't process anything beyond the crushing weight of Kael's body still pressed against hers and the ringing in her ears that sounded like the echo of their impact playing on infinite loop.
Are we alive? Are we dead? Is this what dying feels like?
"Elara." Kael's voice came from somewhere above her, rough with something that might have been pain or fear or both. "Elara, can you hear me?"
Yes. I can hear you. But I can't move because you're crushing me and I don't know if that means we survived or if this is what the afterlife feels like.
"I... yes." The word came out as barely a whisper.
"Are you hurt? Can you move?"
I don't know. I don't know anything right now except that we were being shot at and now we're not moving and everything hurts in ways I can't identify.
"I don't know," she managed.
His weight shifted slightly, and she could feel him doing some kind of assessment—checking for injuries, cataloging damage, making sure she was intact with the same clinical efficiency he brought to everything else.
"Viktor?" Kael called out, his voice carrying that edge of command that demanded immediate response. "Status?"
No answer.
Oh God. Viktor. Is he—?
"Viktor!" Kael's voice took on an urgency she'd never heard before. "Status report now!"
Still nothing but terrible, ominous silence from the driver's compartment.