Ashlyn practically threw herself into the elevator. She slammed her palm against the button for the lobby, her chest heaving. As the stainless steel doors slowly slid shut, cutting off the view of the penthouse hallway, she finally let her head fall back against the wall and exhaled a long, steady breath.

The elevator plummeted to the ground floor. She stepped out and walked quickly across the expansive, gold-accented lobby.

The moment she pushed through the revolving glass doors, the freezing night wind slammed into her. It sliced right through her thin silk pajamas.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest, rubbing her bare skin, and marched down the perfectly manicured, tree-lined driveway toward the massive wrought-iron gates of the gated community. Her heart was still beating erratically from the blood loss and the adrenaline of the fight.

She was ten yards away from the gate when the floodlights hit her.

The blinding white beams pinned her to the pavement. Ashlyn squeezed her eyes shut, throwing a hand up to shield her face. The light burned her retinas.

Two massive security guards, clad in black tactical gear, stepped out of the guardhouse. They were holding the thick leather leashes of two snarling Dobermans. The dogs strained against their collars, their teeth bared.

"Hold it right there, Miss," one of the guards barked, his voice devoid of any respect. "Show your night pass or present Mr. Robinson's iris authorization code."

Ashlyn ground her teeth together. "I have terminated my employment with Alex Robinson," she said, raising her chin. "Open the gate."

The two guards exchanged a look. One of them let out a low, mocking chuckle.

"Without Mr. Robinson's system override, not even a fly leaves this sector," the guard stated flatly. "Turn around."

One of the Dobermans lunged forward, barking viciously. The explosive sound sent a genuine spike of fear through Ashlyn. She stumbled backward, her bare heel catching on the edge of the concrete curb. She flailed her arms, barely catching her balance before she hit the ground.

A low rumble of thunder shook the sky. A second later, the sky ripped open.

Freezing, torrential rain poured down in sheets. Within seconds, Ashlyn's thin silk pajamas were plastered to her skin.

The icy water ran down her face, instantly stripping away the last remnants of her body heat. The dizzy, sickening wave of blood loss crashed into her brain again. Her knees shook.

She stared through the iron bars at the empty, wet streets of Empire City. She was trapped. In this city, controlled by capital and syndicate power, without the right clearance, she was a prisoner.

She weighed her options with cold logic. If she stayed out here, she would pass out from hypothermia and blood loss.

She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She turned around and began the humiliating walk back.

The rain battered her small frame. She walked back into the luxurious lobby looking like a drowned rat. The expensive rugs soaked up the muddy water dripping from her bare feet.

The lobby manager stared at her with wide eyes, but knowing she belonged to the monster in the penthouse, he kept his mouth shut.

Ashlyn stepped back into the elevator. She looked at her reflection in the mirrored walls. Her hair was plastered to her skull, her lips were blue, and she was shivering uncontrollably. A flash of pure, unadulterated humiliation burned in her eyes.

The elevator dinged at the top floor. She stood in front of the heavy oak door she had just dramatically fled through.

She hesitated for three seconds. Then, she raised a numb, freezing fist and knocked weakly on the wood.

The door wasn't locked. It was cracked open. She pushed it slightly and peeked inside.

The shattered glass and spilled bourbon were still on the floor.

Alex was leaning against the wall in the entryway. His long legs were crossed at the ankles. A lit cigarette was pinched between his fingers, the smoke curling around his scarred face.

He had been standing there the whole time. Watching the security feed. Watching her hit a brick wall in the storm and crawl back like a pathetic joke.

Ashlyn pushed the door open and stepped inside. A puddle of rainwater immediately formed around her feet. Her teeth were chattering so hard they clicked.

Alex stared at her. He exhaled a thick cloud of pale blue smoke.

"Why did you stop running?" he mocked, his voice dripping with cruelty.

Ashlyn dropped her head. The wet silk clung to every curve of her body, highlighting the violent shivers wracking her spine.

"The guards... wouldn't let me out," she whispered, her voice thick with a nasal, pathetic whine. "It's raining. I'm so cold."

Alex's eyes dropped to her soaked clothes, then up to her trembling, blue lips. His fingers tightened around the cigarette.

He wanted to laugh at her. He wanted to tear her apart with words. But looking at her swaying, fragile body-a body that had just been drained of blood to save his sister-his throat constricted. The lump of anger in his chest shifted into something ugly and complicated.

He cursed violently under his breath. He shoved the half-smoked cigarette directly into the pristine white wall, crushing the cherry and leaving a black scorch mark.

He pushed off the wall and marched over to the entryway table. He grabbed a heavy set of car keys, the metal jingling sharply in his fist.

He walked right past her shivering form, pushing the door open to the hallway.

"Follow me," he ordered, his voice like cracking ice.

The underground parking garage was damp and smelled of motor oil.

Alex hit the unlock button on the keys. A massive, black, armored SUV flashed its headlights twice, emitting a heavy, electronic chirp.

Ashlyn pulled the heavy passenger door open. The chassis was high, and her muscles were screaming in protest. She dragged herself up onto the seat, her soaking wet pajamas instantly leaving a dark water stain on the premium leather.

Alex slid into the driver's seat. He grabbed the handle and slammed his door shut. The heavy armor plating sealed with a vacuum-like thud, instantly cutting off the hum of the garage. The air pressure in the cabin dropped.

He didn't start the engine immediately. Instead, he twisted his torso, reached into the back seat, and grabbed a thick, folded cashmere blanket. He threw it violently across the console. It hit Ashlyn in the chest.

The soft wool smelled strongly of his cheap tobacco and the faint, metallic tang of gunpowder. Ashlyn didn't care. She grabbed the edges and cocooned herself tightly, burying her freezing nose into the fabric, desperately absorbing the residual heat.

The V8 engine roared to life with a deep, aggressive growl. The heavy SUV shot out of the garage like a bullet, tearing into the flooded streets of Empire City.

The windshield wipers slashed frantically against the glass. The orange glow of the streetlights flickered rapidly through the windows, casting harsh, moving shadows across their silent faces.

Alex's hands gripped the leather steering wheel so hard his knuckles were bone-white. He pushed the accelerator down. The speedometer needle climbed dangerously high. He was using the sheer horsepower and speed to burn off the violent rage boiling in his blood.

He took a sharp corner without braking. The massive centrifugal force threw Ashlyn sideways. Her shoulder slammed hard against the reinforced passenger door.

"Ugh," she grunted, her hand flying up to clutch the bruised puncture wound on her arm.

The soft sound of pain cut through the tense silence of the cabin. Alex's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. He saw her pale face twisted in pain, her hand gripping her arm.

His heavy boot eased off the gas pedal by a fraction of an inch. The engine's roar softened.

Ashlyn felt the slight deceleration immediately. She knew he was cracking. It was time for phase two.

She lowered her head, letting her damp hair fall forward to hide her face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her voice was tiny, broken, like a wounded animal.

Alex didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on the rain-slicked road, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched. He acted as if he hadn't heard her.

Ashlyn sniffled. A single, perfectly timed tear dropped onto the cashmere blanket.

"I was just... I was so scared," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I've always been a coward."

She took a shaky breath and brought up the weapon she had forged in the bathroom. "You came in covered in all that blood. And your face... that awful scar. I thought you were going to kill me."

At the mention of the scar, the veins on the back of Alex's hands bulged. He didn't explode, but a dark, bitter laugh escaped his lips.

"You've got plenty of guts when it comes to taking my money," he shot back, his voice freezing cold. "Don't play the innocent virgin with me now."

Ashlyn clamped her mouth shut, playing the part of someone who had been verbally struck and had no defense. She pulled her knees up, curling into an even smaller, tighter ball under the blanket, and let out a soft, suppressed sob.

The sound of her crying filled the airtight cabin. Every muffled sniffle felt like a dull blade scraping against Alex's raw nerves.

A red light glared through the rain ahead. Alex slammed his foot on the brake. The heavy tires screeched against the wet asphalt, the anti-lock brakes vibrating violently before the SUV jerked to a halt.

He turned his head. He stared at the small, trembling mound of cashmere in the passenger seat. The lethal anger in his eyes slowly bled out, replaced by a heavy, suffocating exhaustion.

He reached out and punched a button on the center console. The climate control system kicked into high gear. A blast of hot air poured from the vents, quickly burning away the damp chill in the car.

The light turned green. The SUV accelerated smoothly this time. For the rest of the drive, Alex didn't push the speed, and he didn't say a single word.

Thirty minutes later, the black SUV pulled into the dark, shadowed alley behind the back gates of an Ivy League university campus, perfectly out of sight of any security cameras.

The electronic locks clicked open.

Alex stared straight out the windshield. His voice was flat, completely devoid of any emotion.

"Go back to your dorm. The contract is terminated. If I ever see your face again, I'll kill you."

Ashlyn didn't hesitate. She threw the cashmere blanket off, unbuckled her seatbelt, and shoved the heavy door open. She practically threw herself out into the rain.

She didn't look back once. Her thin, soaked figure quickly disappeared around the corner of a weathered red-brick building.

Alex sat in the idling car. He rolled down his window. The freezing rain blew inside, hitting his face. The cold water stung the fresh stitches of his scar, making it throb with a dull ache.

He pulled a crushed cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a deep drag. He stared at the empty brick corner through the rearview mirror, his dark eyes swirling with a storm of complex, violent emotions.

He sat there until the cigarette burned down to the filter. Then, he rolled up the window, ripped the steering wheel to the left, and drove the SUV back into the endless black maw of Empire City.

Three days later. The Obsidian, Empire City's most exclusive private club.

Alex strode down the gold-leafed corridor. He wore a tailored black suit that stretched tightly across his broad shoulders. He made absolutely no effort to conceal the jagged, red scar slashing across his face. Among the polished, tuxedo-clad billionaires and politicians, he looked like a feral wolf that had wandered into a dog show.

The waiters pressed themselves against the walls, lowering their eyes as he passed.

Two massive bodyguards pushed open a set of heavy, carved mahogany doors. Alex stepped into the private VIP room. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of expensive Cuban cigars and cloying designer perfume.

Dempsey 'Six' Rocha, the head of the city's most violent crime syndicate, sat at the head of the table. He rolled a cigar between his thick fingers, his reptilian eyes assessing Alex with lethal calculation.

Sitting next to Dempsey was Cora Livingston-Armour, a top-tier socialite. She wore a haute couture gown, her posture stiff and arrogant.

Alex's instincts flared. This wasn't a business meeting. This was a test. Dempsey was trying to chain his best attack dog to the syndicate with a marriage leash.

Alex walked over to the seating area. He didn't wait for Dempsey to offer him a seat. He grabbed a chair, dragged it back with a loud screech against the floor, and dropped into it. He spread his legs wide, his posture radiating pure, street-level arrogance.

Cora's perfectly sculpted eyebrows twitched. Her eyes darted to the horrific scar on his face, then down to his crude posture. A flash of intense disgust crossed her features.

Dempsey smiled, a cold, empty expression. He introduced Cora, heavily implying that her family's banking connections could provide excellent money-laundering channels for the syndicate. He suggested Alex should "get to know her."

Alex leaned back against the chair. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cheap, generic cigarettes. He pulled one out with his teeth.

He completely ignored the solid gold lighter sitting on the table in front of him. Instead, he pulled out a scratched, oil-stained metal Zippo. He flicked it open with a loud clack and lit the cigarette, blowing a thick cloud of acrid smoke directly across the table.

The smell of cheap, burning tobacco instantly overpowered Cora's expensive perfume. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her purse, pressed it against her nose, and let out two exaggerated, delicate coughs.

Alex watched her pathetic, fragile display. For a split second, his mind flashed to Ashlyn-shivering in the freezing rain, soaked to the bone, yet staring at him with stubborn, terrified eyes. His chest tightened. He pushed the thought away violently.

Desperate to complete her family's assignment, Cora forced a tight smile. She tried to engage Alex, bringing up the topic of high-yield art investments.

Alex cut her off. He lifted his heavy tactical boot-a stark, aggressive piece of footwear that entirely broke the dress code of the elite establishment-and slammed it down onto the center of the priceless, antique mahogany coffee table.

The wood groaned under the weight. Cora gasped, her body jerking backward against her chair.

Alex tapped his cigarette. The gray ash fell directly onto the million-dollar Persian rug.

"Art?" Alex sneered, using the thick, guttural slang of the slums. "It's just overpriced paper rich pricks use to wash their dirty money."

He let his eyes drag slowly up and down Cora's body, his gaze deliberately lewd and insulting. "You want to talk business with me, princess? The only business I do with women like you happens on your back."

Cora had been pampered her entire life. She had never been spoken to like a whore. Her pale face instantly flushed a violent, blotchy red. Tears of pure humiliation welled up in her eyes.

She shot up from her chair, grabbing her Birkin bag. She glared at Dempsey. "How dare you set me up with this... this unevolved animal!"

She spun around, her high heels clicking furiously against the floor, and stormed out. The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind her.

The room fell dead silent.

Dempsey slammed his cigar into the ashtray. "Are you out of your fucking mind, Alex? You just blew a billion-dollar connection."

Alex pulled his boot off the table. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He stared Dempsey dead in the eyes, his gaze feral and unblinking.

"I'm a street dog, Six," Alex growled, a cold smile twisting his scarred face. "I don't play house with porcelain dolls. I like my women cheap, obedient, and bought with cash."

He let the silence hang for a second. "I don't do marriage. I don't do leashes. If you don't like how I operate, find another trigger man."

Dempsey stared at him. He searched Alex's ruined face for any sign of deception, any hint of a deeper agenda. All he saw was the raw, violent independence of a thug.

Slowly, Dempsey threw his head back and laughed. He reached over and slapped Alex hard on the shoulder.

"I love that crazy bastard energy," Dempsey chuckled. The lethal tension in the room evaporated. The test was passed.

Alex stood up. He adjusted his suit jacket, gave a curt nod, and turned toward the door.

His hand had just wrapped around the brass doorknob when his burner phone-tucked into his inner breast pocket-vibrated violently.

It was the emergency line.

Alex's stomach dropped. He pulled the phone out. The caller ID flashed the name of Diana's lead physician.

He answered the call, his knuckles turning white around the plastic.