She hasn't said a word since we left her apartment, since the towel slipped off her body. Not even in the elevator, when it glitches for a minute, the threat from her apartment looms around. 

I hear her feet behind me, clacking on the cold tiles as we stepinto my penthouse. The door clicks shut behind us, just as Lucio, my right-hand man, disappears around the corner with her bag. 

I should be thinking about the men who set the building on fire, and planning ways to get back at them. Instead, all I can think about is her fucking skin.

The way to towel clung to her frame a second longer before it dropped to the floor. And her lips...the way they parted slightly, her eyes wide open, like she didn't know whether to run away from me or stay rooted to the spot. 

"Fuck!" I mutter to myself, heading towards my bar in one corner of the vast living area. Sliding onto the stool, I retrieve my favorite bottle of brandy, pouring myself a healthy amount before returning the bottle.

I can still feel her behind me, her eyes scanning the place like she has been dropped into another universe. She probably has, because although she doesn't know it, her life has just taken a dramatic turn. 

"Where are we?" She questions, her voice finally piercing through the silence.

"My home." I stir the contents of the glass slowly, bringing the rim to my lips. "You are safe here. No one will touch you."

She scoffs. "I wouldn't have been in danger if you hadn't come into my apartment last night. I would have still been in there by now, eating popcorn with my best friend and seeing some corny romance movie. It would have been better than this. Hell, anything is better than this."

I turn around then, lifting my brow. "My showerhead doesn't fall off when I breathe. My windows don't cave in easily, and I sure as hell do not live in a dingy apartment above a bookstore, desperately holding on to life."

"You can flaunt your money as much as you like, but at least my apartment felt like home. This...I don't even know what it is."

I try to look at the living area through her own eyes. Every surface is devoid of a personal touch, save a few artworks lining the white walls. The black couch blends perfectly, accentuated by the dark drapes, the black rug, and the black coffee table in the centre.

"You see life in colors," I murmur, taking a small sip and letting the heat burn my throat. "But that won't get you the survival you want."

"I am not searching for survival," she shoots back, but I know as much as she does that that is a lie. Her limbs quiver as she moves towards the wall on one side. Maya is scared, but she has grown so used to hiding every bit of emotion that the last thing on her mind is letting me through the walls she has erected.

Walls that I shouldn't even be thinking about breaking down. 

As her hand grazed the painting of a half-naked woman bathing under the sun, I remember her, standing naked by the window, her towel in a pool at her feet. She has the body of a goddess, the setting sun on her petite curves making her look even more ethereal.

I try to bury the image along with the rest of my dark memories, but it just keeps resurfacing. 

Swallowing instinctively, I take another sip of my brandy. 

"Do you do this often?" She asks, still standing by the image. "Snatch women from their homes and lock them in your penthouse?"

"Do you think you are locked in?"

Her hair whips around her as she turns to look at me. "What is this, then? Why did you come into my apartment the night you got shot? How did you know I was a nurse? How did you know my name?"

Those are questions I cannot answer. 

"You came with me, Maya," I remind her, sliding off the stool. "When I grabbed your hands and pulled you with me, you didn't run away. Not once did you attempt to get out of the car."

"Would you have let me?"

"I walked out of your house earlier today when you asked me to leave. It wouldn't have been any different."

"It would have been!" she yells, her voice bouncing off the walls. "Because you waltzed into my life and set everything I knew on fire. Because I know that I have nowhere else to go. I cannot put Ava's life in danger, just as you have done to mine."

I stare at her. "You have me now."

She sighs exasperatedly, shaking her head. I am not offering kindness, and Maya knows it. 

The shrill of my phone on the bar top erupts the atmosphere. I don't need to look to know it's Lucio calling. I instructed him to get back to the scene when he dropped off Maya's bag. 

Looking away from her, I retrieve my phone, scanning the screen. 

An unknown vehicle has been spotted near her apartment minutes after we left. We haven't been able to ID him yet, but one thing we know is that it is a man with a mask on.

My hand fold into a fist. Maya is right. I shouldn't have gone into her apartment last night. Now, I have made her a target as well, after keeping her safe for over five years. 

Tossing the phone back to the bar top, I head down the hallway, my half-finished brandy still in my hand. "I'll show you to your room," I call over my shoulder.

"Saint."

Something about her voice causes me to halt. 

"What happens now?"

I angle my head, turning just enough to look at her. She is standing in front of the ceiling-to-window, the city of Los Angeles lit up behind her. 

"You get absorbed into my world."

When my eyes fall open, it is hard to make out where I am. The silence stretches on endlessly, and for a few seconds, I just lay on the huge, luxurious bed, letting the memories from last night flood me.

Saint Lachlan. 

"Shit! The hospital!" I sit up with a jolt, feeling dizzy as blood rushes into my head. I give myself one more second before scampering out of bed, heading out through the doors.

But I halt the moment I get outside. The hallway is so long and the penthouse so huge that I don't know where to turn to get myself into the living room, or the kitchen.

Looking towards my left and right, I decide to go right, fulfilling a part of me that thinks everything has gone left since the night Saint stumbled into my life. 

My feet take me down the hallway, bathed in the morning light coming in through the tall windows. I see a door slightly open on the left. My curiosity gets the better of me as I take a peek.

It looks like a study, with an imposing desk that looks like mahogany. A thick book lay open on it, with a leather chair on the other side. I can see another folder, tightly bound, as if telling everyone to back off. A huge piano sits in the middle of the space.

It looks out of place.

Saint plays the piano? 

The instrument looks too fragile, too vulnerable for someone as hard and domineering as Saint Lachlan. While my thoughts fester on that, I hear someone stop behind me. 

A woman speaks next, her voice soft and low. "You must be the girl." 

I angle my head at her. She is in a flowing black dress that looks striking on her skin, with black heels and blood-red lips. I feel so odd standing in front of her in my mismatched and old pajamas, while she screams luxury. 

She brings her slender fingers to her chin. "I have to admit, I was wondering what kind of stray Saint would bring home next."

And then, I ask the most foolish question. "Who are you?"

A chuckle escapes her lips, clinging to the air in such cruelty that it makes me recoil. "I should be asking the questions, honey. But you seem to have forgotten who you are exactly after spending one night here. So, I'll oblige you."

"I'm Gianna, his fiancée. Well, ex-fiancee, but we are coming around to that soon. You shouldn't let it bother you. And you must be...."

I feel it in my chest, a sudden pinch. But I shake my head subtly, as if dispelling the thought. There is nothing to feel heartbroken about. 

"You don't look like someone who has moved on with their lives, seeing as you are his ex," I blurt out, hating that demeaning look in her eyes.

Gianna doesn't flinch as she takes a step closer, her perfume wafting towards me. Jasmine. 

"Little technicalities, honey. You see, Saint and I are not your regular engaged couple. Our destiny has been written long before we were born. Two empires that will be joined as one."  And then, she gives me a once-over. "I'm certain someone of your standing cannot understand that."

"But he ended it, didn't he?" I refuse to back down, even though deep down, I know I have no reason to do this.

"Men like Saint don't end things, unless..."  Gianna allows the rest of her words to hang in the air, unsaid, before she continues. "He pauses them until he's done playing. And once he's done with you, which I know will be really soon, seeing how boring you are, he will be right back in my arms, where he belongs."

She walks past me into Saint's study, dropping into the leather seat like it is hers. The expression on my face causes her to laugh.

"Don't tell me you think he rescued you. That was the story he gave you to bring you here, right?" She shakes her head. "It's adorable how naïve you are, darling, but you should know that Saint is dangerous. You're not the first girl he has tried to save, and you won't be the last that he ruins. Mark my words."

My throat goes dry, but I don't give anything away. "If he is so dangerous, why do you want him back?"

I see that my words hit a nerve as her lips twitch. "I am the only one who understands Saint. And he is mine. There is nothing wrong with wanting what's mine. And do you know why I am sure he will always come back to me? It's because Saint doesn't like girls with dark pasts, and I can see that you do from a mile away. You don't know the rules of this game, and it will bore him out."

I open my mouth to speak, but she holds her hand up, cutting me off. 

"You can ask him about Venice. Ask him what happened to the last girl he tried to rescue, just like you. Then, you'll understand."  

Before I can say something, I hear the elevator ding, and Gianna hears it too, as her whole body freezes. Saint appears beside me at the doorway, but his eyes narrow in on her. 

"Gianna," he starts, his voice cold and his shoulders stiff. "Get out." 

"You don't have to be so harsh about it," she drawls, getting out of the seat and edging towards him slowly. "You brought a girl home. How sweet."

And then, she waltzes past him, leaning in closely towards me as her lips brush my ear. "I warned you, honey. And I don't repeat myself. Leave before I make you."

I hear her heels clack on the floor until it is only a faint echo. 

"Saint, what happened in Venice?"

His eyes regard me, the coldness slowly dissipating, but his expression unreadable. 

He looks at me, like the truth might destroy me.

Control is everything.

That has always been my rule, the single law that separates me from the chaos I was born into. Without control, men fall. They become weak, exposed, prey for those who are hungrier. But lately, control slips through my fingers the second I look at her.

Maya.

She does not belong in my world, yet somehow she has become the axis mine spins around. I should have cut her out the night she saved me, erased her from my orbit before the shadows learned her name. But I didn't. I couldn't. And now, every hour she stays near me, the danger around her grows sharper.

Tonight the penthouse feels smaller. The walls press closer. The lights of Los Angeles flicker like a city waiting to consume us both. I stand by the glass, whiskey in hand, watching the streets below while Lucio runs through the latest updates.

"Two of Vincent's men were seen near the hospital," he says. His voice is low, careful, the way it always is when the subject turns to her.

I do not move. "Did they make contact?"

"Not directly. Just lingering. Watching."

My jaw tightens. Watching her. Watching my weakness.

Lucio continues, "We scared them off, but it will not be long before he tries again. He knows."

"Of course he knows," I mutter. "That is what he does. He looks for the cracks."

Lucio hesitates before speaking again. "She is the biggest one you have."

I turn from the window, my eyes locking on his. "Careful."

He doesn't flinch. He has been with me long enough to know when to push and when to step back. Tonight he chooses silence. Smart.

When he leaves, I am alone again, but my chest still feels heavy, tight with the weight of something I do not allow myself to name.

A knock pulls me from my thoughts.

It is soft, uncertain. Hers.

I open the door, and there she is, standing with her arms crossed over her chest, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looks small in this place, fragile, but her eyes, those eyes, are steady, searching mine with a boldness that strips me bare.

"You drink too much when you're thinking," she says, glancing at the glass in my hand.

A smile ghosts across my lips. "And you knock too softly when you are not sure if you should be here."

She steps past me, into the room, as if she owns it. As if she owns me. "Maybe I shouldn't be."

I close the door. "You should not. But you are."

Her gaze sweeps over me, lingering for a second too long. I know what she sees: a man unbuttoned, stripped down from the version the world fears. To her, I am not the devil they whisper about. To her, I am just Saint. That is what makes her dangerous.

"You keep pulling me into this," she says. "And I keep letting you."

Her honesty cuts deeper than any blade. I set the whiskey aside and step toward her. "Do you want me to stop?"

She hesitates, and that pause tells me everything.

"No," she whispers.

The space between us collapses. Her scent, warm and clean, fills my lungs. My hand brushes her arm, her skin soft beneath my touch, and I feel her shiver. She does not step back. She never does.

"You should be afraid of me," I murmur.

"Maybe I am," she answers. "But I'm more afraid of what happens if I walk away."

Her words ignite something in me I have no business feeling. I lean in, pressing my forehead to hers, letting her steady my storm for a single fragile moment.

But then the darkness slips back in. Vincent's face flashes in my mind. His voice, his laughter. His threats.

I pull back, sharper than I mean to. "You do not understand what it costs to stand beside me."

"Then tell me," she says, fierce now. "Show me. Stop pretending I can't handle the truth."

The truth.

The truth is blood and ruin. The truth is the nights I spent clawing my way out of the gutter, the bodies I stepped over, the empire I built from ashes and screams. The truth is men like Vincent who will never stop until they taste my blood or hers.

"You want the truth?" I say coldly. "The truth is that everyone I touch ends up broken. You think you can survive me, but you cannot. No one does."

Her eyes shine, but she doesn't look away. "Then let me decide that."

Silence stretches. The city hums below us. And I realize, with a clarity that terrifies me, that I cannot push her away anymore. Not because she refuses to leave, but because I refuse to let her go.

I step closer again, my hand cupping her face, my thumb brushing her cheek. "You are playing with fire, Maya."

"Then burn me," she whispers.

And I do.

My lips crash against hers, and the world falls away. She clings to me like she was made for this, like she was made for me, and for once I let go of the chains I've wrapped around myself.

When the kiss breaks, her breath is ragged, her eyes wide. I rest my forehead against hers, fighting for control.

"You do not know what you are asking for," I tell her.

Her smile is small, trembling, but defiant. "Maybe I do."

The sound of my phone cuts through the air. I curse, stepping back. Lucio's name flashes on the screen.

I answer. His voice is urgent. "He moved faster than we thought. Vincent is calling in debts. He is not waiting anymore."

I hang up without responding, my chest heavy with rage and resolve.

Maya's eyes search mine. "What is it?"

"War," I say simply.

Her face pales, but she doesn't run. She doesn't even step back.

And that is when I know. She is already mine.