The next evening. The massive, wrap-around terrace of the penthouse offered a dizzying view of Empire City. The ocean breeze was sharp and cool.

Alex sat on the deep outdoor sofa. He wore black tactical cargo pants and a tight black t-shirt. Sitting across from him were Arley Deleon, his right-hand man, and Gus Boggs, a lower-level enforcer.

Spread across the low glass table were several blueprints of the city blocks and three unloaded, heavy-duty handguns. They were speaking in low, rapid voices, planning the hostile takeover of an underground casino run by a rival faction.

The heavy glass sliding door leading to the living room glided open with a soft hiss.

The three men stopped talking instantly. Arley casually tossed a folded map over the handguns.

Ashlyn walked out onto the terrace. She was barefoot. She was wearing one of Alex's white button-down dress shirts. It was massive on her, falling to her mid-thigh. The top three buttons were undone, exposing her delicate collarbones and the pale skin of her neck.

Her face was still a sickly, translucent white from the blood loss, but the oversized shirt and her bare legs gave her a fragile, devastatingly intimate look.

Alex's jaw clenched instantly. A flash of dark irritation crossed his eyes. She was interrupting syndicate business, and she was walking around his men looking like she had just rolled out of his bed.

"Get back inside," Alex barked, his voice hard and uncompromising. "You don't belong out here."

Ashlyn didn't flinch. Instead of retreating, she walked straight toward him. She moved like a cat seeking a heat source. She bypassed the empty chairs and dropped right onto the sofa next to Alex.

She leaned her entire body weight against his solid bicep, pressing her soft shoulder into his arm.

"It's freezing in there," she whined, her voice soft, nasal, and dripping with exaggerated neediness.

Alex's entire body went rigid. His muscles turned to stone. His first instinct was to shove her off him. He raised his hand to push her shoulder, but he felt how genuinely cold her skin was through the thin cotton. His hand stopped in mid-air, hovering awkwardly.

Before he could react, the penthouse butler stepped onto the terrace. He carried a heavy silver tray.

He set the tray down on the glass table. On a porcelain plate sat a thick slab of pan-seared beef liver. It was cooked rare. Blood pooled around the edges of the meat. The heavy, metallic stench of iron and raw flesh instantly hit the air.

Ashlyn gagged. Her stomach violently lurched. She slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyebrows pulling together in genuine disgust.

"I am not eating that," she gasped, turning her face away. "It's disgusting."

Alex's face darkened. "You lost two pints of blood. Your iron levels are in the gutter. Eat it."

Ashlyn seized the moment. She ramped up the act. Her eyes filled with fake tears. She reached out and grabbed the hem of Alex's black t-shirt, tugging on it like a spoiled child.

"My arms are too weak to hold the knife," she murmured against his skin. It was a dangerous, incredibly intimate move. Alex felt a sudden, unwanted jolt of heat pool in his gut. His defenses cracked. He let out a harsh, frustrated sigh. He reached forward, picking up the heavy silver knife and fork. He cut the meat into small pieces, intending to leave it at that. But Ashlyn didn't move to take the fork. She looked up at him through her lashes, her voice dropping to a sickeningly sweet, dependent whisper. "I don't have the strength to lift my hands at all. I'll only eat it if you feed it to me."

The silence on the terrace was deafening.

Arley and Gus stared at them, their eyes wide. Arley bit the inside of his cheek, desperately trying to suppress a laugh. They looked away, pretending to admire the skyline.

Alex felt a vein throb in his temple. This was absurd. Yesterday, they were screaming at each other in the car. He had told her she was a whore. Now, she was rubbing against him in front of his men, playing the devoted, needy girlfriend.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Stop pushing me," he hissed, his voice lethal.

Ashlyn didn't back down. She buried her face into the crook of his neck. Her warm breath ghosted over his carotid artery.

She shifted her weight slightly, her elbow 'accidentally' clipping the edge of a heavy crystal water glass sitting on the table. The glass tipped over, sending a wave of ice water directly across the map Arley had used to cover the handguns. Arley cursed, lunging forward to grab the wet paper before it soaked through. In that frantic half-second of chaos, the corner of the map was exposed.

Her photographic memory instantly locked onto the red circled coordinates. Pier 44. The underground casino.

She leaned back against Alex's chest, opening her mouth for another bite. She had just secured her cover, humiliated him in front of his men, and stolen syndicate intel, all without lifting a finger.

2:00 AM.

The master bedroom of the penthouse was pitch black, save for the faint, neon glow of the city bleeding through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

In the center of the room sat a massive King-size bed.

Getting into this bed had been a calculated battle. Earlier, she had clutched her head, claiming the blood loss made her too dizzy to be left alone in a guest room, terrified she would pass out and die without anyone noticing. Alex had weighed the risk of losing his sister's only blood supply against his intense disgust. He had reluctantly agreed, but set a brutal boundary. Now, Alex lay on the far left side. Ashlyn lay on the far right. Between them was a vast expanse of empty mattress, a physical boundary neither had crossed.

Alex was asleep, but it was the shallow, hyper-vigilant sleep of a man who lived with a target on his back. His breathing was slow and even, but the muscles in his arms and chest were micro-tensed, ready to explode into violence at the slightest noise.

Ashlyn lay perfectly still, her eyes wide open in the dark.

Her brain was running at maximum capacity. She was connecting the coordinates of Pier 44 to the shell corporations owned by the Decker family. If Alex hit that casino, he would unknowingly sever a major cash flow for her enemies.

She finished her mental calculations. It was time for the final move of the night. She needed to test exactly how far Alex's physical boundaries had eroded.

She closed her eyes and began to manipulate her own physiology. She forced her breathing to become shallow and erratic. She made her chest heave. She clenched her muscles until a thin layer of cold sweat broke out across her forehead.

She gripped the silk bedsheets in her fists, twisting the fabric until her knuckles ached.

Then, she let out a blood-curdling, desperate scream.

"No! Don't let it fall! Please!"

It was a calculated trigger. The "Metroplex Tower Collapse." The tragedy from three years ago where her fake profile claimed her beloved older brother-her first love-had been crushed to death. It was the cornerstone of her fabricated PTSD.

The second the scream ripped through the air, Alex violently snapped awake.

Pure survival instinct took over. His right hand shot toward the nightstand, his fingers instinctively wrapping around the cold, textured grip of his loaded Glock 19 secured in its quick-draw holster.

He flipped up into a crouch on the mattress, the gun raised, the muzzle sweeping the dark corners of the room in a fluid, lethal arc. He checked the door. The windows. Clear.

His eyes snapped to the other side of the bed.

Ashlyn was curled into a tight fetal position. Her whole body was shaking violently. Tears were streaming down her face, catching the faint neon light. She was gasping for air, trapped in a nightmare.

Alex slowly lowered the gun. He let out a harsh breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. He remembered her background check. The building collapse. The trauma.

He slid the gun back under the pillow. His voice was gruff, trying to cut through her panic.

"Ashlyn. Wake up. You're dreaming."

Ashlyn didn't stop. She played the role of a drowning victim desperate for a lifeline. She scrambled across the massive bed, crossing the invisible boundary line.

She threw herself at him. Her arms wrapped fiercely around his lean, hard waist. She buried her wet, tear-stained face directly into his bare chest.

Alex's entire body seized. His muscles locked up, turning as hard as granite. He hated being touched. He hated losing control. And he especially hated being touched by a woman he had sworn was nothing but a transaction.

He brought his large hands up, grabbing her shoulders. His grip was brutal, his fingers digging into her collarbones. He tried to physically rip her off his body.

But Ashlyn clung to him with terrifying strength. She buried her face deeper into his sternum. Her tears soaked into his skin, running down the hard lines of his abs.

"Please," she sobbed, her voice cracking, sounding utterly broken and hollow. "Please don't push me away. It's so cold. I'm so scared."

The words hit Alex like a physical blow.

He felt her skin against his. She was freezing. The blood loss had left her body temperature dangerously low. She felt like a block of ice clinging to him for survival.

His hands, still gripping her shoulders to push her away, froze.

He remembered the sight of her pale face on the terrace, forcing down the bloody meat just to stay alive.

For a full minute, the only sounds in the dark bedroom were her muffled sobs and his heavy, ragged breathing. The internal war tore at his chest.

Finally, Alex let out a low, defeated curse.

He let go of her shoulders. He didn't push her away.

Instead, he fell back onto the pillows, dragging her with him. He reached down with one hand and grabbed the heavy down comforter, pulling it up and wrapping it tightly around both of them, sealing her freezing body against his burning heat.

His large, calloused hand moved to her back. He pressed her firmly against his chest, his palm resting awkwardly between her shoulder blades. He patted her twice-a stiff, unnatural gesture of comfort from a man who only knew violence.

Wrapped in his arms, listening to the heavy, steady thud of his heart, Ashlyn's fake trembling slowly subsided.

Hidden in the dark, pressed against his chest where he couldn't see her face, Ashlyn slowly opened her eyes.

There were no tears left. There was no fear. Her eyes were completely dry, sharp, and terrifyingly lucid.

She felt his hand resting protectively on her back.

The beast had compromised. He had sworn he would never touch her, never care for her, and yet here he was, shielding her from a fake nightmare.

Helga Caldwell smiled in the dark. The fortress was hers.