The cold woke me first. Bone-deep, shivering cold that had my teeth chattering and my whole body curled into itself trying to find warmth that wasn't there. Then came the awareness of movement, the gentle rocking that meant I was still on water, still drifting.
My eyes cracked open to bright morning sunlight that stabbed into my skull like knives. I groaned and tried to sit up, every muscle in my body protesting. The boat had run out of gas at some point, leaving me floating in the middle of Lake Michigan with no idea how far from shore I'd gotten or which direction was which.
Panic tried to claw its way up my throat, but I shoved it down. Panicking wouldn't help. I needed to think, to figure out what to do next. Maybe if I waited, another boat would come by. Maybe I could flag someone down, get help.
That's when I heard the engine. Deep and powerful, nothing like the small speedboat I was in. I turned toward the sound and felt my blood run cold.
The yacht was massive, the kind of vessel that probably cost more than every building in my neighborhood combined. Sleek white hull, multiple decks, windows that gleamed in the sunlight. It was heading straight toward me, and I knew with absolute certainty that whoever owned a boat like that wasn't going to be good news for someone like me.
I thought about starting the speedboat's engine, but it was dead, empty tank mocking me. I thought about jumping into the water, but I'd never been a strong swimmer and I'd probably drown before I got anywhere. So I just sat there, frozen, as the yacht pulled up alongside me.
Men appeared on the deck, looking down at me with expressions that ranged from curious to hostile. They were dressed well, professional, the kind of people who worked for someone with serious money and serious power. One of them pointed at me and said something I couldn't hear, and then they were lowering a ladder, gesturing for me to climb up.
I didn't move. Couldn't move. My survival instincts were screaming contradictory commands, run, hide, comply, fight, until I was paralyzed by my own terror.
"Miss, you need to come aboard." One of the men, older with gray at his temples and a scar across his jaw, called down to me. His voice was firm but not unkind. "That boat's not going anywhere, and you're going to die of exposure if you stay out here."
He was right, I knew he was right, but my body wouldn't respond. I just stared up at them, shaking, unable to make myself move.
The gray-haired man sighed and said something to the others. Two of them climbed down the ladder, and before I could even think to resist, they were in the speedboat with me. One grabbed my arm, not roughly but firmly enough that I couldn't pull away, and guided me toward the ladder.
"Come on, let's get you warmed up," he said, and there was something almost gentle in his tone that made tears spring to my eyes.
I climbed because I didn't have any other choice. My arms shook on every rung, my legs barely supporting my weight, but I made it to the deck. The moment my feet touched solid surface, my knees gave out and I collapsed.
Strong hands caught me before I hit the ground. "Easy, easy. When's the last time you ate?"
I couldn't remember. Yesterday? The day before? Time had become meaningless somewhere between the attack and the endless darkness on the water.
Someone wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and the warmth of it made me realize just how cold I'd gotten. My fingers were blue, my lips probably the same, and I couldn't stop shaking.
"Get her inside, get some food and water into her. And someone tell the boss we've got a situation." The gray-haired man, he seemed to be in charge, gave orders and people moved to follow them immediately.
They led me through a doorway into the yacht's interior, and I had a confused impression of expensive furniture and polished wood before they sat me down on a leather couch. Someone brought me water and I drank it too fast, my stomach immediately cramping in protest.
"Slow down," a woman's voice said, kind but firm. "You'll make yourself sick."
I looked up and saw an Asian woman, probably around thirty, with sharp eyes and an expensive pantsuit. She sat down next to me, not too close, giving me space. "I'm Nina. What's your name?"
"Helen," I managed to whisper, my voice rough from screaming and smoke inhalation and hours on the water.
"Okay Helen, you're safe now. We're going to take care of you." Nina's voice was soothing, but I caught the look she exchanged with the gray-haired man. They didn't know what to do with me, and that made me a problem.
I was trying to formulate some kind of response when I smelled it. Sandalwood and something else, something clean and sharp like expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely male. The scent hit me like a physical force, making my head snap up and my whole body go rigid.
Someone was coming, someone important, and every instinct I had was screaming danger.
The door opened and a man walked in, and I forgot how to breathe.
He was tall, probably six-three or six-four, with the kind of presence that made the room feel smaller.
Dark hair styled perfectly, ice-blue eyes that seemed to look through me rather than at me, and a face that might have been handsome if it showed any warmth at all. He wore a suit that probably cost more than I made in a year, and he moved with the confidence of someone who'd never met an obstacle he couldn't destroy.
Those blue eyes locked onto me, and I felt pinned in place like a butterfly on a board. He didn't say anything, just looked at me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
Then his expression changed, something flickering across his face too fast for me to read.
He took a step toward me, stopped, took another step. His jaw clenched like he was fighting something inside himself.
"Who is she?" His voice was deep and rough, the kind of voice that expected immediate answers.
"Found her drifting in a speedboat, sir. No fuel, no supplies. She would've died out there." The gray-haired man, Marcus I thought Nina had called him, reported like he was giving a military briefing.
The man's eyes never left me. "Name."
"H-Helen Tully," I stammered, my voice barely working.
He moved closer, and I couldn't help it, I flinched back into the couch. Something flashed in his eyes at my reaction, anger maybe, or something else I couldn't identify.
"Where did you come from?" he asked.
"Westside territory," I whispered. "There was an attack, everything was burning, I just ran."
His expression didn't change, but something in the air shifted. "The Westside territory belonged to Damien Cross."
It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway.
He studied me for a long moment, and I felt like he was cataloging every detail, every scar, every sign of fear. Then he turned to Marcus. "She comes with us. Put her in one of the guest rooms and make sure she has everything she needs. And Marcus, no one touches her. Spread the word."
The command was clear and absolute, and I saw everyone in the room straighten slightly in response.
He turned back to me, and for just a second, his carefully controlled mask slipped and I saw something raw and hungry and almost desperate underneath. Then it was gone, locked away behind cold blue eyes that revealed nothing.
"Welcome aboard, Helen Tully," he said, and walked out without another word.
I sat there shaking, the blanket clutched around my shoulders, trying to understand what had just happened. Nina touched my arm gently. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up and fed. You're safe here."
But as she led me deeper into the yacht, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just traded one kind of danger for something far more terrifying.